Killer Instinct
by Believe in Fairy Tales
Summary: Jamey Stuart is a girl escaping an abusive home. She joins her sister Revy aboard the Black Lagoon, hoping to start a new life with this motley crew. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello to anyone kind (or bored) enough to be reading this :D**

**I started this to help me get over a current bout of writer's block so my other multi-chapter fics won't suffer from lacking creativity. I've had this idea in my head for a while already and got quite far with the rough outline, so hopefully it turns out nicely :D**

**Thanks again for reading, and drop me a review when you're done :) **

**Chapter one – An introduction to the shit hole that is my life**

A shaft of early morning sunshine filters through the crack in my drawn curtains and seeps onto my bed, where I lie spread-eagled under the covers.

I open my eyes slowly and stare at the chipping ceiling above me.

I sigh as my alarm clock starts beeping, late as always, since the timer's broken. I check the time. It's 7:15. I'll be late for my interview if I don't get up now.

Deciding that it would be best to make a good impression on my sixth high school interview of the week, I drag myself out of bed and set about getting dressed. Combing hair, brushing teeth, pulling on some ragged assortment of clothes that vaguely seem to go together, and I'm done.

I step infront of the cracked mirror behind my door and look at my distorted reflection.

Long brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, sleep-clogged green eyes, a pair of skinny jeans and a sleeveless top, as well as a pair of brown hiking boots that I had to beg my foster-mom for.

I grab a small satchel from the corner on my way out and slide down that banister to the living room.

"Jamey!" my mother shouts from her chair in the kitchen. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? We just polished them yesterday!"

"Well, I'm re-polishing them for you!" I shout back, heading outside.

My mom has this idea in her head that no one has the time to sit down and have breakfast in the kitchen but her. Even my dad can't drink his coffee in there - he has to take it in a thermal flask to work.

Not that I want to stay home for a minute more than is necessary. Let's just say that my parent's aren't the most gentle of people when it comes to dealing with kids.

I slam the door shut behind me and continue waking down the garden path, out the front gate and onto the sidewalk.

A few cars drive by, but other than that the road is completely deserted. My boots make no sound on the concrete flagstones as I walk along the road, looking down at the report card I hold in my hands. I had dug it out of my bag and was now wondering if my grades were high enough for this school to accept me. Once again, I say this – this is my sixth high school interview this _week_.

It wasn't as though I had been to blame for failing all of the previous interviews. It had been my 'parents' fault. It's almost as if they don't want me to go to school at all. I mentally recap all my past failed interviews with a shudder.

_Interview #1-_ mom slaps principal for no apparent reason.

_Interview #2-_ dad punches principal for no apparent reason.

_Interview #3-_ mom and dad hurl insults at the principal's assistant for not letting them use the staff coffee machine.

_Interview #4-_ I went to this one on my own, but mom showed up and dragged me out of the principal's office in the middle of my interview, mumbling on about how it was my grandmother's funeral or some shit like that. I don't even have a grandmother.

_Interview #5-_ all was going well until dad turned up drunk and started chasing teachers around while brandishing a rather large and heavy-looking plank of wood. He then turned on the principal and I can tell you – it didn't end well. And then when he decided to bat me around a little, I headed for the hills, like I always do.

Shaking myself out of my unpleasant reverie, I jog a little way down the road and make sure my parent's aren't following me or something. They don't even know which school I'm going to for my interview.

I made sure of that well beforehand.

The high school I have my interview with is about three blocks from my house. It's called Cecillian Rogue High School for the Underprivileged. Not that I'm underprivileged or anything. It's just that this was the only school that hadn't heard of my demented parents and would give me a fighting chance of improving my education. I really don't want to go there, but what choice do I have?

I need to make it into the tenth grade _before_ I turn seventeen.

I come up to the rusted iron school gates. A bell rings somewhere, and suddenly the empty quad becomes a hive of activity. Great. Just what I need to boost my self-esteem.

I sigh and dig my hands deeper into my pockets. Stepping through the faded blue gates, I walk quickly past the bustling crowds and make a beeline for the main office. It's this small open-plan building, with a few comfy-looking leather armchairs sitting around a coffee table just infront of the secretary's desk. I sidle up to the counter and tap politely on the glass separating the main desk from the rest of the room.

The receptionist, a young thing of barely twenty years old, looks up at me with a bored expression. She blows a gum bubble and pops it before saying, "What?"

"I'm here for my interview with Mr. Valkner," I reply, readjusting the strap of my shoulder bag to a more comfortable position where it isn't biting into my shoulder.

She looks down at her computer screen and then back up again before motioning to one of the chairs with a slight nod of her head.

"I'll let him know you're here."

I nod my head and sit down in one of the brown chairs. The leather and cushioning is so soft that I almost sink right into the armchair. In the end, I perch on the edge of the seat to avoid being swallowed alive.

I wait a further hour and a half before the principal's door opens on the other side of the room and Mr Valkner steps out, his balding head shining in the bright fluorescent lights.

He's half-hidden by a large pot plant right next to the door and I have to stretch up on tiptoe just to catch a glimpse of him. He motions me in and I step into his office. He offers me a seat infront of his polished oak desk, smiling warmly. There are about a million tiny butterflies flitting around in my stomach at that moment. I sink shakily into the wooden-backed chair and slide my fourth-term seventh grade report across the table to him as he sits down.

He takes it and without a word, starts reading it, still smiling. His expression remains carefully blank, not giving a thing away. I gulp down the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. This is my last shot. It's all or nothing now.

Mr Valkner looks up from my report, his warm smile now looking pretty fake.

"Your results are above average for your age group, Ms…?" he begins, forgetting my name.

"Stuart," I reply. "Jamey Stuart."

"Right."

After he explains what subjects he wants me to improve before I can start here, he goes on to tell me exactly how the school system works.

"What I can do for you," he says, clasping his hands together on his desk while mine writhe restlessly on my lap, "is let you spend a day here with the students, just so that you can get the feel of what a school day here is like. I know some kids who would just love to show you around."

_Yeah_, I think. _And I'm sure they wouldn't mind using me as their midday snack, while they're at it._

"That would be a start," I reply uncertainly.

Mr Valkner misinterprets my uncertainty for fear. "I could even give you a spare uniform, if you like."

"Sure," I shrug and nod my head. "When should I come?"

"How about tomorrow?" he suggests, standing up from his chair and escorting me out the room. "We have an assembly, anyway, and I think it would be good for you to see how the most important weekly tradition in the school works so that you're at least a little prepared for when you actually start."

"Sounds good," I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and he shuts the door behind me.

I walk briskly out of the cool air-conditioned office and into the humid mid-morning sunshine, keen to be away from the school before my parents somehow manage to stumble upon me. I literally jog out the school gates to escape the prying stares of the few students still milling around.

I run back to my house and notice that my mom's car is gone. She must be shopping. I slip through the front door, unnoticed by my father who is sleeping in the living room. My parents think I've gone for a quick jogging session.

I leap up the stairs to my bedroom and throw on a pair of jogging shorts, sneakers and a different sleeveless shirt.

Then, I hear the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and the front door open downstairs. My heart plummets when I realize it must be my mother.

I dive for my window as she comes up the stairs. Just as she reaches the landing, I'm already shimmying down the drain pipe and running through the back garden, jumping over the short fence and jogging to the end of the block.

I live to run. Ever since I can remember, running has been my life. It's either running from the cops, crooks, or some drunk with a gun. Sometimes an angry storeowner is thrown into the mix.

I've been running myself out of trouble ever since I started school. You could say that I've always been a bit of a troublemaker. A bit more that that, actually.

I once set fire to a teacher's car, flooded another teacher's classroom with a hosepipe after sealing all the windows and doors with Blutac, and slashed the tyres on a principal's car after she expelled me for apparently no reason. A lot of things seem to happen to me for no reason.

I'm a definite troublemaker.

Some people would say that I'm like this because of the tense situation at home and I'm just taking my frustration out on the people at school. I've never had that many friends, so that could be true.

I've been running from dangerous situations at home since I was little, too. I was adopted when I was eight and a half, but I can still remember what my life was like before my new home.

I did everything you would consider bad.

I robbed, I stole, and I killed, all to stay alive.

A fleeting memory comes to mind. It shows me standing in a torn-up room, a million feathers cascading around my head. On a bed infront of me lies a body, a pillow on its head with a single bullet hole through the center. The man's blood stains the pure white fabric. He's been killed, and I'm the one holding the gun at only eight years old.

Not that my life has gotten any better since the adoption.

I turn the corner and keep running until I come to an old intersection, pushing the memory to the back of my mind. A faded four-poster sign stands erect on a small traffic circle in the middle of the road. I turn right and keep jogging until I end up in the park. I take the running trail, through the leafy trees and long grass. I usually take this time to reflect on whatever it is that I need to think about.

But today, my mind is blank. I think I just want to forget about everything, if even for a little while.

I do another two laps around my block and I end up back at my front gate. I seem to have worked up a convincing sweat pattern to assure my parents I had actually been jogging. I close the rusty gate behind me, trying to slow my erratic breathing down to a normal rhythm. The squeaking and squealing of the gate is sure to alert my mother to my presence.

"How was the jog?" her voice floats through the entrance hall as soon as I'm through the door.

"It's just exercise, mom. There isn't really a scale as to how good or bad it can go," I reply as I jog back up the stairs for the second time that morning, hoping to confuse her to the extent that she won't come up and question me further.

I close my bedroom door behind me and slip out of my dirty clothes and into the same ones I had worn for my interview, minus any shoes.

I never stay in my jogging clothes for too long - staying dirty kills me. That's probably a side effect from living off the streets for so long. The dirt can get so bad that you can actually switch nationalities, if you know which one to go for.

I turn on the battered radio and the music starts pouring out of the fizzling speakers. My favourite rock band is playing.

.

I turn the radio louder and sit down heavily on my threadbare chair infront of my even wonkier desk. I look around my room. I think back to what I was pondering about on my jog. Life hasn't really gotten any better for me since I was adopted. Sure, I have a place to sleep now and regular meals, but that's about it.

My room is the bare minimum of living standards. The walls are painted, the floor laminated, but that's where the luxuries stop. My bed is a thin mattress on the floor with no base. My radio is something I salvaged from the dump down the road. My desk is falling apart and is literally being held together with sticky tape and Blutac. The chair I'm sitting on creaks and leans dangerously to one side. I adjust my weight so that I end up sitting on the edge of the other side so as not to overbalance the dilapidated piece of furniture.

I have a couple of tattered blankets covering my bed. My pillows look and feel like they're filled with rocks. A couple of torn posters – the only shred of my identity in the room – hang limply from the wooden skirting running around the top of the room, about three feet away from the ceiling. My walls are painted a sickly shade of pea-green. A small window is to the left of the room, opposite my door, covered with ratty old curtains. My life has definitely not improved very much.

Before I was adopted, I lived on the streets, sleeping in thick concrete sewage pipes waiting to be lowered into the ground and keeping warm with other street urchins next to withering fires in abandoned parking lots and ruined buildings.

The police caught me one day after I was bust shoplifting a handful of sweets and shipped me off to an orphanage on the edge of town.

I stayed there for six months before my current parents (or 'owners' I should say) adopted me for such a meagre amount of money that it was like the agency just couldn't wait to get rid of me.

Then I came to live here. My new parents and their families constantly physically and mentally abused me, but it seems to have died down a little now.

My hand instinctively creeps up to my shoulder, which my 'dad' almost broke when I was ten. It still hurts a little because they only took me to a doctor when I wouldn't stop crying and the teachers at school started to get suspicious. I went to a below-average school, called Reinara Heights. I was also bullied there, and that's when I honed my ability to use a gun with deadly accuracy. It wasn't only then that I learned how to use a gun. When I was still living on the streets, my 'older sister' taught me. She looked after me.

Her name was Revy, and she taught me all I know. But when I got adopted, I couldn't see her again for years, until I went looking for her when I was twelve. I found her and we tried to stay in contact, but my parents forbid me from going out at night, so I haven't seen her for about five or six months.

I remember Revy well. I looked up to her and copied almost everything she did. She was seven years older that me and knew a lot more about how to use guns and live alone on the streets than I did.

She had these amazing eyes, which had this look in them that suggested that she had seen too much for her years. There was another, harder look in her eyes, too. One that told everyone she was a born killer, a person who could just turn off and massacre crowds of people with just a flick of her wrist and an itchy trigger finger. She was dangerous. She had a love for violence, and always went looking for a fight. It was strange that she could be so clear-minded when faced with danger.

But, even when she needed a clear head, she would let her temper get the better of her. But, she was my big sis, and she always stuck up for me, no matter what. When I turned seven, she stole a pair of guns just for me.

"A small birthday present," she called them, even though neither of us actually knew when my actual birthday was.

They were a pair of twin Berretta M92's, stainless steel with an ivory grip. They had very slight recoil and a built in silencer, so it was obvious that they had been modified and lightened. I had no idea where had had got them from, but I was really grateful.

After three months, I could shoot a can straight through the center from ten paces away. After six, I could shoot a can through the middle and then go on to shoot it in half again while it was soaring through the air. A couple of weeks after that, I could shoot with both guns simultaneously.

I made my first kill when I was seven and a half – a drunken homeless guy who wanted to beat me up. After that, I didn't hesitate to shoot anyone who wanted to hurt me, even the cops. Especially the cops.

Where I grew up, the cops wouldn't think twice about beating the crap out of you for no reason at all, especially little street urchins like me. I gave up all belief that there were at least some good cops on that day when I came running out an alley, screaming for help after I saw someone I knew get shot in a hit and run.

As soon as they saw me, the first cop kicked me down and the rest beat me to within an inch of my life. It was Revy who found me later on, bleeding from the nose and mouth, too weak to even lift my head off the ground, and nursed me back to health for a week. She told me the same thing had happened to her a while back.

I remember those years. I'll always remember her eyes, oddly-coloured hair, and her never-ending energy.

She was always working out at the gym, dodging the guards to sneak inside. She was always finding ways to find food for the four of us in our small group, and just being the mother and sister to all of us.

The last I heard, she was working for a 'courier company' called Black Lagoon. By 'courier', I mean modern day pirate. They transport illegal packages from point A to point B from right under the authorities noses, and they get paid big bucks for it. Although, they never seem to have enough money to get by…

But, that's just what I've _heard_…

Suddenly, there's a sharp rapping on my door. It startles me, a rude awakening from my memories of seemingly happier, easier times gone by.

My foster mother's voice drifts through the door.

"Your father wants to see you downstairs. Now."

There are brief periods in time when the people who insist on being called my foster parents actually speak civilly to me, like when I had come home from my jog earlier. Now is not one of those times.

Slowly, I get up from my chair, a strong sense of foreboding settling like a bowling ball in the pit of my stomach. Something in her voice suggests that this meeting is going to be anything but pleasant.

I open my door and peer outside to make sure no fists will come flying at me from around the corner or something. My mother has already gone. I step out and slowly walk down the creaky stairs to the living room. The door to the lounge is underneath the staircase.

Inside, my 'father' sits in one of the red-upholstered armchairs with a face like thunder. I swallow down a lump of dread in my throat and hesitantly step inside. He turns to look at me, murder in his beady black eyes.

My heart literally skips a beat when my 'mother' closes the door behind me.

"Sit down."

My father nods to another chair opposite him. My mother stands between the door and me, blocking my only escape route if things get out of hand.

I sit down, perching on the edge of the seat, my hands clasped in a ball in my lap.

My stomach has worked itself up into a million knots. I know when I'm about to get my ass handed to me on a silver platter – my mother blocks any way out and my father looks like he could kill me with his bare hands.

"So," the man infront of me begins, crossing his legs. "Is there something you would like to tell me, Jamey?"

"Not really," I reply quietly, knowing that I'm treading on sensitive ground full to the brim with landmines.

Bigass, non-negotiable landmines.

"Oh, there must be something," he probes, standing up. His voice drips with fake pleasantness. "Like, for instance, do you have any plans regarding your high school education?"

_Shit!_

I think frantically for some sort of explanation to cover my tracks, but none come to mind. My silence seems to be a cue for him to carry on.

"You may think your mother and I care about you education, which we do not, but you need to tell us which school you think about enrolling yourself in. Otherwise, how do we know what sort of education we will most certainly be paying for?"

The fact that I still remain silent seems to infuriate him. He wants an answer, but he knows I can't give him the right one.

"Do you honestly think you can keep secrets from me?" he shouts, slamming his fists down on the coffee table.

I still don't answer him and his face reddens even more. He grabs me roughly by the collar and hoists me off my seat. I know he can see how scared I am. Seven years of abuse can make it easy to notice.

I swallow another lump in my throat and put on a brave face. I promised myself I would never let him see my fear. I promised myself no more tears. I refuse to be broken.

"Answer me, you little wench!" he shouts, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out sooner or later?"

I keep my mouth shut. I've learned that if I give him an answer, I'll just get beaten up sooner. But, it doesn't help if I stay quiet, so I'm stuck in a painful catch 22.

He draws back his fist and punches me in the jaw, sending me sprawling across to the other end of the room.

I land at my mother's feet, blood seeping from the corner of my mouth from a bitten tongue.

"You should have answered him," is all she says before he drags me to my feet and kicks me down again.

I'm on the floor, and he's kicking me in the stomach. I manage to break away for a moment and my hand clasps around the door handle. My mother tries to pull me away and I kick out at her clawing hands in panic. One of her fake nails breaks and she cries out.

My father looks like a vicious pit bull that's just cornered a defenceless rabbit.

"I'll teach you to lay a hand on your mother!"

He kicks me down on the floor again and grabs a ceramic vase from one of the stands on either side of the door and starts hitting me with it. I try to shield my face from the blows with my already bruised arms. He then props me up against the wall, limp and lifeless, with my arms lying useless and bloodied at my sides.

"Now, what do you say to your mother?"

Weakly, I wipe a trail of blood away from the corner of my mouth with one hand and do the same to my nose with the other. Maybe if I can make him angry enough, he'll end it. End it all. I won't have to face the pain again…

"Nothing. She's not my mother," I growl, glaring up at the man and woman looking down at me. "And you're not my father, so don't tell me what to do."

His smile of maliciousness turns into a snarl of rage. Good.

"You little…!" and with that, the attacks start again.

I just take them as they come, knowingly helpless, lying in a growing pool of blood on the cold, hard living room floor.

…

A while later, I sit in a public toilet just outside the train station a few blocks from the house. I obviously hadn't made him angry enough.

Some people would ask me, "Why don't you just run away?"

The answer isn't that simple.

I'm a minor, so even if I did run away, the cops would just bring me back. And even on the slim chance that I did avoid the cops, I don't know any existing runaway gang that would take in someone like me. All I'm good for is using my guns, and I don't even have those. The last time I saw Revy, I gave them to her.

"Keep them for me," I had said, pressing them into her open hands. "Give them to me the next time I see you. I don't want them to get taken away."

I sigh and adjust the tissue on my bleeding nose. I don't think I'll ever see Revy again. Oh well. At least she'll have the guns to remember me by. Anyway, even though the home is abusive, my tattered room keeps me warm at night and gives me shelter from the rain.

I stifle another yawn and rub my dry eyes with the back of my hand. It's late – around half past eleven in the evening.

I had only managed to get off the floor at around sixish. My legs had just refused to work and I had been dizzy from loss of blood.

My 'parents' had left the house around four. I don't know were they went. I'm just glad they eventually left me alone, since 'dad' hadn't killed me.

I change tissues and throw the crimson-encrusted one in a nearby dustbin. I wipe the corner of my mouth again. My lip is cut, swollen and still bleeding, but not as badly as my banged-up nose.

Breathing hurts, and not just because of my nose. My ribs hurt, too, and it's painful to move around too much. I lean back against the cistern of the toilet I'm sitting on. The lid is down and I draw my legs up, resting my head on my knees. I cringe at the pain that follows all my actions. I sigh again.

This is going to be a long night.

**She's very similar to Revy in a lot of ways…I just realized that :/ but I suppose it makes sense since Jamey idolizes everything she does.**

**This fic is gonna work on the same principle as my others - review for the next chapter :P**


	2. Chapter 2

'**sup readers! :D**

**Here be chapter 2 :3 thanks so much to BigKwell for reviewing :D**

**Chapter two – I'm nothing but trouble**

My alarm clock is beeping again and I have a splitting headache. I sit up and look down at my pillow. It's covered in dry blood again. I grab a rag from the side of my bed and wipe the corner of my mouth. The cut on my lip is still bleeding, even though my nose stopped ages ago. I haven't been able to sleep the whole night.

I throw off the tatty blanket and stand up, stiff as hell. I stretch and look out my open window. When I had eventually crawled home last night, I didn't want to use the front door in case I woke my parents up. So, I had climbed up the drainpipe and through my window.

A foggy memory about today surfaces. I have my little tour of my would-be high school today. I then contemplate whether to go or not. After what my father had said to me last night, I didn't think it would be such a smart choice to go ahead with it. But, I decide to go anyway. I need some excuse to get out of the madhouse.

I'm not going to stay home and be the punching bag again.

I slip on a baggy pair of cargo pants and a sports shirt. I tug on my hiking boots and lace them up.

Wiping another trail of blood from my mouth, I creep across the hall into the bathroom. I patch up my lip, smooth down my hair and wash the blood from my face.

I then tiptoe down the hall and slide down the banister to the front door, clearly not trusting the creaky stairs.

I make it out the front door without a sound.

Only when I'm halfway down the block do I realize I've forgotten my bag. I curse my stupidity and turn to go back, wanting to but not having the courage. I eventually decide to go without it and check my watch. It's 8:30. The school should be open by now.

I jog the last couple of meters to the school gates and then make my way just as quickly to the admin office, away from the stares of the students. I guess I've missed the assembly.

As soon as I close the solid oak door behind me, the young secretary is taking me by the arm and leading me behind the counter, through a small door through the back.

"I'm sure Mr Valkner told you about what you would be doing today, am I right?" she says as she tows me along.

"Yeah," I mumble as I follow her, looking up at the neon lights overhead and the leafy plants on either side of me as the secretary makes her way down another corridor to a room on the other side of the building.

I enter the room and see three girls around my age sitting on the couch opposite the door. The first one is a large bottle-blonde with piggy little eyes and a turned up nose. The other one is thin as a scarecrow with jet-black hair and tired brown eyes. The third one seems to be the liveliest of the three - a bubbly girl with brown hair in a high ponytail and electric blue eyes literally pulsating with energy.

The receptionist leaves me alone with them and they introduce themselves (albeit after much eyeballing and whispering amongst themselves).

The blonde's name is Berta (go figure), the skinny one is Liza and the brunette is Sylo (who names their kid Sylo?).

"Our fist lesson today is maths," Sylo says, taking me by the hand and leading me out a set of French door right next to the couch.

I can tell that the three of them are dying to ask me about my cuts and bruises, so I put on my best 'leave-me-the-hell-alone' face and keep walking.

Sylo leads me up a set of circular stairs to the second floor of the classroom block and down a corridor to a small classroom tucked away in the corner.

The classroom is small and dingy. About sixteen kids sit in the class, listening to the apparent ramblings of a middle-aged man with thinning grey hair and a rather large nose on which a pair of oversized glasses rest.

I sit down at a desk at the back with Sylo and Liza. Berta sits infront, right next to the teacher's desk. I sigh and look up at the ceiling. This is going to be a long day.

…

Some time later, Sylo informs me that her class is heading to PE on the upper field. Since the school is built on a large hill, all the sports fields and school buildings are built into the slope.

I follow the crowd up a flight of stairs and though another section of classrooms to the changing rooms. You can't really call them changing rooms, though. It's a small building divided into two halves – one half for the girls to change in and the other half for the boys. The girl's change room is an old kitchen, removed of the fridge and some cupboards. Sylo drops her bag ontop of an old stove and changes into her sports uniform along with the other girls. I feel like a bit of an outsider, seeing all of them in similar powder blue uniforms with all their friends, while I stick out like a sore thumb in khaki and black.

They eventually head out to the main sports field outside. The sports teacher, a wiry woman with shaggy blonde hair, lines them up for sprints. She asks me if I would like to join them. I politely decline and go sit on the stands nearby. I don't like advertising my speed when I know I use it for all the wrong reasons.

As I sit down, I hear a noise – faint at first, but growing louder by the second. I know that sound all too well – gunshots and screeching tyres. The sound intensifies and suddenly I'm up and running, sprinting across the width of the field, jumping over kids cowering on the ground like miniature hurdles. I'm aiming for the massive concrete steps leading up to the staff parking lot above the field, where the noise seems to be coming from. I don't know why I'm running towards it – maybe it just brings back memories from my past that I want to experience again. I don't know how my twisted mind works at the best of times, anyway.

A car bursts into view, screeching to a halt in the middle of the parking lot. It's a red Chevy Camero with a gunman hanging out the window, firing wildly at the blue Datsun following behind it.

The occupants of the Camero – three, by the looks of things – pile out of the car and take refuge behind it from enemy fire. I spot a dark-haired woman shooting over the bonnet of the Chevy and immediately recognize the double-handed firing style.

"Revy!" I shout, clambering over the steps like a monkey.

The woman, who stops to reload her gun, looks up at me with a mix of shock and surprise. I grin in relief when I see the same murderous glint in my sister's eyes as she takes up arms again from behind the Camero.

"Jamey!" she shouts back, grinning at me over her shoulder. "Get your butt over here! I need some support fire!"

That's Revy – no hellos or soppy sentimental greetings, just straight to the point and down to business. I reach the top of the stairs and scoot over behind the Camero. Revy nods her head to a pair of joint gun holsters lying on the back passenger seat of the car. Reaching in through the open door, I grab my Berettas and quickly check if they're loaded.

There are two other men sheltering behind the car with us – a big, burly black guy with dark sunglasses and a shaved head, and a blonde dude in a red Hawaiian t-shirt.

I know who they are – I've met them a few times before – but I ignore them for the moment and cock my guns, flicking the safety off with my thumbs. The ivory grips feel cool to the touch, the coal black triggers smooth under my index fingers. I've missed these guns so much, it's unbelievable.

I prop myself up on my elbows next to Revy on the hood and let all hell loose from the triggers. Firing both guns simultaneously, I take down three gunmen from the other side at once.

I turn to reload and glimpse the kids from the school staring at me from behind some dustbins with a mixture of fear and awe. I laugh humourlessly.

Welcome to the real world, kids. There are no law-abiding citizens where I come from. Where I come from, everyone's best friends in their gun. Where I come from, almost everyone is your enemy.

I get back on my knees at let rip, even the slightest recoil of my guns making my arms hurt under their mountains of bruises and cuts. My weak shoulder is jarring and my trigger fingers are tense. But I'm smiling. It's been ages since I've been in a decent gunfight.

The gunfire dies down, with both sides almost out of ammo.

I look over to Revy, both of us breathing heavily. She smiles at me, one of her beautiful smiles, and clasps me warmly on the shoulder. I wince and she takes her hand away, looking worried. She notices the fresh cuts and bruises, just starting to turn blue-black.

"My God, Jamey," she breathes, her expression hardening. "What have those monsters been doing to you?"

I look down at the ground, ashamed at not being able to speak about it. Ashamed at being so weak to let this happen to me.

"That settles it," she continues, sitting on her haunches. "You're coming with us."

"Huh?" I say, confused.

"I'm not going to let you go back there as a human punching bag. I wouldn't be your big sister if I did, now would I?"

I smile and laugh. I throw my arms around her neck – I've missed my big sister so much.

"Now, then," Revy says, prying me off, picking up my guns and handing them to me, "Why don't we," she smiles wickedly and gets that familiar glint in her eyes, "pay our little… _friends_ a visit?"

I grin back and nod my agreement. "Let's go."

I strap my dual holsters around my waist so that the bridge runs across the small of my back and the gun pouches hang at my sides, within easy reach.

I cock the guns and reload with some fresh ammunition from the car. Together, Revy and I stalk across the short distance between us and the blue Datsun.

"Before we start shooting," I ask, just out of earshot of the enemy, "who are these guys?"

"Italian drug dealers that got on the wrong side of the Russian Mafia. We've been hired to take them out," Revy replies, cocking the hammer on her Berettas. Our guns are mirror images of each other.

I smile grimly as we pause briefly, me at one end of the car and Revy at the other. She nods, and we round the other side of the car, guns drawn and aimed to fire. Three surviving Italians trying to reload their guns – Mannlicher-Carcano rifles, by the look of them - in a frenzy stop suddenly and look up at us, a mixture of pure fear and horror plastered all over their faces.

I seem to switch off and let my fingers do the thinking. The next thing I know, I'm looking down at three dead bodies slumped at my feet. Their mouths are gaping and their eyes are sightless and glazed over. There are bloodstained holes covering their heads and chests.

Then, I hear it – the police sirens. Their wailing and screeching intensifies at they come closer.

"Time to go!" Revy jumps over the bodies, propelling me towards the bullet-riddled Camero.

Dutch, the big black guy, pushes the blonde dude into the driver's seat, and he jumps into the front passenger seat. The car starts moving with the back doors wide open, and Revy and I jump in. Then, we're speeding out of the parking lot and down the road, crashing over the speed bumps that run the length of the street until we skid onto the main road.

Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, and my heart is hammering in my chest.

Revy takes a couple of deep breaths before saying, "You remember Dutch and Benny, don't you?"

"Yeah," I laugh. "How could I forget you two goons?"

Revy laughs too. "Couldn't agree more with you, kid!"

"Careful, Revy," Dutch says with a smirk. "This is your boss you're talking about."

"Yeah, I know," Revy answers with a defiant smile, reclining back on the seat.

"How's it going, kiddo?" Benny asks, glancing at me over his shoulder and flashing me a welcoming smile.

He hasn't changed much since I last saw him a couple of months ago – his shoulder-length hair is still dirty blonde and tied on a low ponytail. He still hasn't lost his five o'clock shadow and fetish for Hawaiian shirts.

"Not too bad," I reply with a shrug, pulling myself forwards and sitting in the middle of the back seat, looking straight out the front window. "Just a little rough at home, that's all."

"The folks giving you hell again?" Dutch turns to look at me. I can't see his eyes through his dark sunglasses.

"Nothing I can't handle," I lie.

Revy pulls me backwards and gets me in a headlock, ruffling my hair with her fist.

"Stop trying act like such a hero!" she scoffs playfully, although only I can tell it's false. I know she's worried about me. I know what she would like to do to my adopted parents right now. Good thing our ammo was almost out. "You're taking all the attention away from me!"

"You can be such a drama queen, Revy," Benny says with a wide grin, turning hard at the next left as another blue car starts chasing after us, presumably filled with more Italian drug-dealers.

"Do you want to live past twenty-three, smartass?" Revy growls, reloading her gun and sticking her upper body through the skylight.

"Preferably, yes," Benny mumbles as I reload my guns and stick myself through the gaping hole that used to be the back window.

The Italians already have a gunman on their roof, firing a crudely wielded AK-47 at us with little success. After his fourth failed attempt, Revy and I glance at each other with warped smiles and cock back the hammers on our Berettas. We've always had similar taste in weapons.

The Italians know their man doesn't have a hope in hell of bringing us down with that kind of shooting. They're already pulling back, but that isn't going to help them. You can't get away fast enough from two expert markswomen.

Revy and I aim and fire. Three bullet holes pierce their windscreen and the car careens off the road and into the guardrail. Smoke pours from the bonnet and the shooter is draped over the windscreen, either dead or unconscious.

We speed away, leaving a huge build up of traffic behind us. I look back at the rapidly disappearing blue school gates and pull a face. Well, there goes my secondary education. Darn it.

Revy and I drop back into the car and collapse in the back seat. Benny floors the accelerator and the Chevy shoots forward.

"What are you guys doing so far inland? Is business that bad?" I ask, flicking the safety of my guns back on and slipping them back into the holsters.

"Apart from Italian drug-dealers, we had a couple of errands to run. Supplies and stuff you can't get near the coast," Dutch replies.

"So are you guys heading back to port, then?"

"Yeah," Revy answers, holstering her guns and leaning her head against mine.

"Are you sure you want to come with us?" Benny pipes up. "It's a long trip."

"I go wherever Revy goes," I reply decisively.

"And she sure as hell isn't going back to that shit-hole of a home!" Revy shouts at him, almost launching herself forwards as she grabs hold of the back of both seats infront of her.

"Okay, okay!" Benny jumps, his hands jerking involuntarily on the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve.

I turn and look out the rear window to make sure we hadn't caused any major highway accidents. The road is empty except for a few late-morning travellers coming from the other direction. They honk noisily at us before speeding off.

A thought suddenly occurs to me.

"Turn here," I tell Benny, pointing to a small side road that leads to my house.

"What the hell are you thinking, Jamey?" Revy scowls and grips my shoulder tightly, clearly not pleased with my decision.

"Trust me on this," I reply, my expression cold. "I need to do this."

I cock back the hammer on one of my guns after pulling it from its holster and flicking the safety off. The Beretta gleams wickedly and I smile. "Time for a little thing called payback. No other kid should have to go through what I did."

Revy grins at me, catching my drift. We pull up outside the bleak two-story house that has been my torture chamber for the past seven and a half years. I open the car door and step outside, my gun gripped tightly in one hand. I know Revy wants to follow me in, but she knows I have to do this on my own.

My mother's car is parked in the driveway, my father's right behind it. Good, they're both home

I walk up to the front door and open it before I can chicken out, stepping inside. My conscious self switches off, letting a side of me that I had long abandoned come to the surface. My inner killer takes over. I feel nothing. My body is simply a vessel. My mind in somewhere else, probably in Tahiti or something.

I can hear them talking upstairs - my 'parents'.

My slight weight on the stairs alerts them to my presence. Their conversation stops as I near the top landing of the staircase. Their bedroom door opens and my 'father' pops his head out into the corridor.

"What the hell are you doing back here?" he asks curtly, clearly not pleased to see me back in his house.

"Unfinished business," my voice sounds far away, like I'm a spectator looking down on the scene.

"What unfinished business?" I can see he wants to slap me again. He then sees the gun in my hand and his piggy eyes grow wide.

"Where-where the hell did you get that from?" he stutters, momentarily taken aback.

Before I can even consider answering, he slams the door shut. I can hear the sound of a bolt being slid across from the inside. What a coward – seeing me cowering at his feet gave him power for all those years. I bet the dead, fearless look in my eyes was like a kick in the pants to him. Without his little security blanket of power, he's just a scared little man with low self-esteem issues.

I walk over to the door and give it a powerful kick, sending the whole thing crashing inwards. Cement and plaster dust billowing around me, I step into the luxuriously furnished room. I remember never being allowed in here when I was a kid.

A massive four-poster bed dominated the red-painted room; there are a million and one scatter cushions thrown all over the place. An armchair sits in the corner, right next to the large window. My father has his right leg half-thrown over the windowsill. My mother is standing behind him, literally pushing him out of the window so she can get out.

I point the gun at them. I give a short, humourless laugh on autopilot. They look so scared it's like they're about to shit themselves or something. I pull the trigger. A loud bang echoes around the room. The familiar smell of gunpowder fills my nose.

My mother topples over, a bright spot of blood staining her shirt. I knew she was dead before she hit the floor.

My father is still trying to launch himself out the window, but fear has rooted his foot to the spot and he can't lift his other leg off the floor. I pull the trigger again and he falls off the windowsill, back into the room, clutching his wounded arm and whining like a little girl.

"What are you crying for?" even to my own ears, my voice sounds dead and emotionless, mimicking what he says every time he attacks me.

I walk forward and press the muzzle of my gun against his forehead. He looks up at me with his beady black eyes, sweating like a pig.

"What do you think you're doing, you retard?" he shouts, fear making his voice go all high-pitched so he sounds like a girl. A bastard till the end.

I smile cruelly and give him his answer, not scared for the first time in my life. So this is what it feels like to have all the power…

"Simple, you heartless bastard. Revenge. That's all there is in this world, anyway. All that's left for people when other's take everything else away from them is revenge."

And with that, I pull the trigger a third time and a dark hole appears between the man's eyes, followed by a trail of deep crimson blood.

His eyes glaze over and his mouth hangs open, lifeless and motionless, before he slumps to the ground. For a few moments, I stand there, looking down at the two bodies at my feet. I feel numb. A picture fills my mind's eye - a million pure white feathers cascading down around me, some stained bright red with blood…

**Remember to review for ch3 :3**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Ronin Shinobi**** – thanks for reviewing :D yes, Rock is making an appearance (what would the Black Lagoon be without him? :3). As for Jamey and 'acquiring a male partner'… something of the sort happens ;3**

**And now our journey to Roanapur continues! 8D**

**Chapter three – Leave this place**

I don't know exactly how long I spent in the bloodstained room, but I remember Revy coming in and dragging me out when she heard police sirens wailing a couple of blocks away.

I sat silently in the back of the car as Benny sped down the highway towards the coast, where Revy assured me that someone would be waiting with the boat.

Now, I sit and stare out the back window with my chin resting on my upturned palm. Patchwork fields flash past me as we travel further and further away from the city and into the countryside, straight towards the sea.

The sun is shining, but I barely seem to notice. After my little killing spree, I seem to have switched off completely. I tend to do that. It happens to be a useful survival skill. I should come back online in a couple of hours. If I hadn't switched off every time I killed, I would have gone insane a long time ago.

About two hours later, we stop at a petrol station to fill up. I step out of the car wearily and lean against the trunk. Revy takes me by the arm and tows me along behind her to the convenience store across from the pumps. I follow behind numbly.

As soon as we step through the door, the cold air-conditioning hits me like a fist. It's such a change from the stuffy air of the car that it seems like I've stepped into a huge freezer. I almost immediately snap back into reality and look around me, like someone coming out of a daydream.

Revy looks at me and grins. "I thought that would bring you back to the world of the living," she says with that throaty chuckle of hers.

I smile back at her and give a short laugh. "It's good to be back."

We buy a couple of drinks for us, Benny and Dutch, and then walk back to the car.

Revy and I lean against the side of the car, sipping on Cokes and just generally spacing out. Dutch and Benny are sitting in the car, waiting for the petrol tank to run the full meter.

A big tour bus pulls up next to the convenience store, away from the petrol tanks. Its occupants are obviously just stopping for a stretch break. I read the name on the side of the bus – _St. Thomas High School for Boys._

I notice all of them staring at me and only then do I realize that they won't get out of the bus because I have my guns strapped around my waist. Without breaking eye contact with the bus driver, I detach my gun belt and chuck it inside the car.

Slowly, the boys start disembarking from the bus. Most of them are white, with the usual blonde hair and blue eyes. They all act like they've never seen a gun before out of the movies.

The mere sight of those pampered fools make me sick. People like them tend to think people like me are disgusting, dirty criminals who steal not because they have to, but because they have nothing better to do with their lives.

They give me a wide berth and I glare over my shoulder at them icily. The one hand that isn't holding a Coke can is buckling my gun holsters back on, just to intimidate the sods a little.

All of them are wearing clean sports uniforms – white shorts and shirts with blue lines on them, with knee-high socks and soccer boots. They look pretty wimpy and dorky for a soccer team, by my standards. And my standards count because I used to belong to one of the toughest street-soccer clubs in the country. There was hardly a match when someone didn't need to be wheeled out on a stretcher at halftime.

"These guys look like the sight of a gun'll make them piss their pants," Revy chuckles beside me.

I laugh and reply, "They wouldn't know a decent soccer match from a tea party even if it bit them in the arse."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Revy agrees, taking a swing from the bottle in her hand.

The petrol meter clicks and signals that the tank is full. We see no petrol attendants in sight. Benny whistles to us to signal our departure. Revy and I literally dive into the back seat just as Benny revs the engine and roars out of the gas station, leaving a very flustered-looking station owner behind, shaking his fist and swearing at us.

I sit back on my seat and laugh. Once a crook, always a crook.

"Lucky we took the number plates off, hey?"

"Right," Dutch answers, reclining his seat and pushing his sunglasses further up his broad nose.

"We usually don't have enough money for gas, so taking the number plates off is fast becoming a standard procedure," Benny adds, flooring the accelerator and shooting forward.

"It's going to take us another four hours to get to port, so go easy on the fuel," Revy tells irritably him, kicking the back of his seat with her boot.

Benny mumbles something under his breath and slows down slightly.

"Hey, Benny?" I pipe up, leaning forward in my seat.

"Yeah?" he cocks an eyebrow at me.

"Whatever happened to the old Pontiac?"

"Eh…I'd rather not say."

...

About three hours later, we come in sight of the sea. It's still quite some distance away, but we're almost there. I straighten up in my seat and screw my eyes shut against the glare of the sun on the tar road, which suddenly seems too bright. Revy sits with her feet propped up against Benny's chair, sleeping lightly.

That's another thing people like me and Revy tend to do automatically. Even if we get off the streets, we can't sleep deeply or for long periods of time. It's sort of a built-in reaction for self-preservation. If we did fall into a deep sleep, there was no telling what could happen to us while we were out. We always had to be alert.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

Dutch and Benny have been silent for most of the trip, but as soon as they see the ocean, they start talking.

"Wake Revy up," Dutch tells me, turning around in his seat and dropping his booted feet off the dashboard.

"Rev, wake up," I murmur, shaking her shoulder.

She shrugs my hand off and grimaces as she wakes up fully and the sun hits her in the face. "Are we there yet?" she asks gruffly, sitting up straight and peering out of the window with sleep-clogged eyes.

"Yeah," I answer, yawning loudly.

"Good," she says, leaning back against the seat. "My arse is starting to hurt."

I laugh again, genuinely. I hadn't laughed this much in six and a half years. And Revy… so much time apart and nothing has changed.

Within ten minutes, we pull up outside a dingy-looking tavern called the Bloody Mary.

Not the most accommodating-looking of places, but as Revy told me, it's the "best damn place to get a stiff drink after a long day."

The place is as dingy on the inside as it is on the outside. Dull electric lights hang from the peeling ceiling, the floor is stained with coffee and who-knows what else. The chairs and tables are literally falling apart, and the only semi-clean thing in the whole room seems to be the bar counter, which shines like a mirror in the low light.

Remy, Duke, Micky and myself sit down on the bar stools infront of the counter and the barman – a middle-aged guy with greasy black hair and three gold teeth (probably fake, in this country) – turns to face us. He's cleaning a glass with a dirty rag.

His beady eyes rest on Revy for a fraction of a second too long, and they go wide in recognition. He slams his glass down on the counter infront of her. She doesn't bat an eyelid.

"Revy! What the hell are you doing in here, you little skunk?" he shouts in a heavy Mexican accent.

My blood starts to boil and I literally jump over the counter, shoving the barrel of my gun halfway down his throat while grabbing his collar at the same time.

"No one insults my big sister!" I snarl, pushing the gun further into his scrawny little neck.

Behind me, Revy taps my shoulder, looking decidedly calm and somewhat weary.

"It's okay, Jamey. He doesn't know what the hell he's saying most of the time. You can put the gun down."

I reluctantly holster my gun and sit back down, though still on edge. The Mexican gives me a cold look and I glare back at him. He hurriedly turns his attention back to my sister.

"You still owe me all that money for burning down my bar last month! I've had to rebuild this place three times because of you!"

"Fuck, you sound like Bao! It's not my fault those salt dogs can't handle their beer. My gun stayed in its holster the whole time, incase you don't remember. I don't owe you a thing," Revy answers coolly. "But if you insist on getting someone to pay your rent, why don't you go and take it up with Balalaika?"

The bartender seems to pale at the mention of the Russian name, gulping audibly. He regains his composure fairly quickly and picks up his glass again.

"Just make sure you don't bust my stuff up again, Revy, or you're going to buy me a whole new liquor selection, all vintages."

"Oh, shut it you Mexican bullshitter and pour us a couple of stiff drinks," Dutch interrupts with a grin before the bartender gets the chance to launch into another sermon.

The man looks at me, in doubt about my drinking rights, but one look from Revy sets him straight.

"Just get her a clean shot of vodka and rum," she says, downing her own glass of the stuff before continuing. "She needs it."

The bartender sets a shot glass of clear vodka down infront of me and then another of dark rum down next to it. I down both in quick succession, barely even feeling the burning sensation that engulfs my throat. I guess you could say that I'm a regular drinker, even at such a young age. A heavy drinker, if given the chance. As they say, alcohol makes people forget, and that's exactly what I used it for.

I used to sneak out some nights to one of the illegal bars not far from my house. The bartender and the doorman knew me, so getting in and getting my drinks was no problem.

I push my empty glasses to the other end of the counter and fold my arms, resting my chin on my upturned palm. I stare disjointedly at the rows and rows of bottles stacked on the shelf behind the counter infront of me.

Revy, Dutch and Benny start talking to the bartender, but I'm not listening. Their conversation doesn't interest me. I have a sudden urge to be outside, in the wind and sea-salt.

I push my stool out from under the bar and stand up. Revy turns her head to me and asks, "Where are you going?"

"Outside," I reply, making for the door. "It's too stuffy in here," I mumble, one hand on the swing door.

Revy shrugs. "Just don't get into any trouble," she says. She grins. "I don't feel like bailing you out this time."

I grin back and push through the door, into the bright sunshine. The street is empty. It's hot as hell. An old woman is sitting across the street, next to a crate of vegetables. An old umbrella stands over them, trying in vain to keep them from rotting in the heat. I suddenly realize that I'm hungry. I jog across the street, heading for the old woman's stall. She looks up at me with a weathered face and squinted eyes.

I point to a pile of shiny apples at her hip. "How much for one?"

She jabbers something back in quick fire Portuguese. I adjust my language and ask again.

Three dollars and fifty cents later, I'm walking down the roughly cobbled road towards the ocean. The breeze is ruffling my hair. Whisps of it fly across my face, and I swipe them behind my ear. I shade my eyes against the sun and smile. I like the feel of the heat on my bare arms. It had been a long time since I had been able to walk around freely like this, without a care in the world.

My hiking boots are getting too hot. I pause, supporting myself on a lamppost while I unlace them and tug them off. I tie the laces together and sling them around my neck and carry on walking. There are a few little kids running around in the middle of the street, kicking around an old tin can and giggling as they kick up clouds of dust with their bare feet. Their mothers watch from the shade of a few umbrellas on the sidewalk, outside a tiny coffee shop.

The can bounces my way, and I kick it back. The little kids smile and wave as I walk past, thanking me in Portuguese. I smile and wave back. God…what the hell was I thinking, getting adopted? This is what I would have rather been doing all those years…

I can feel the rough texture and heat of the cobblestones through my socks as I near the docks. Three piers lead off into the water, but between them are stretches of golden sand. It could have almost been beautiful to look at, if you could ignore the trash lying all over the place. And beyond that… the sparkling blue expanse of the ocean. I can smell the salt, even from all the way up here. Seagulls cry out as they hunt for discarded fish among the trash heaps outside of the fisheries.

I pull my socks off and stuff them in my boots. I step onto the beach sand and wriggle my toes – it had been so long since I had been able to feel the warm sand underfoot. I smile and sigh, walking towards the water. Tiny waves ebb and flow over the shoreline, making ripples in the golden sand. I stand with the water up to my ankles. The water is cool compared to the stifling heat of the day. The foam on the water clings to the bottom of my pants. I roll them up and step further into the water, going mid-calf.

I turn my face up to the sun and smile. For the first time in a long while, I feel completely at ease, like I have no cares in the world, just like those little kids up the street. It feels good.

**Reviews = chapter 4 :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm Yu**** – welcome and thanks for reviewing! :D yeah…I feel sorry for Rock too…I don't think the poor guy has the stomach for a miniature Revy :P as for the timeline, it begins fairly early on in the anime (just after episode 2 – Mangrove Heaven)**

**Chapter four – Illegitimate cargo**

I wake up the next morning to the pitching and rolling of a ship. I dimly remember, as I lie under the covers with my hand trailing on the floor, that Dutch had moved us all onto the torpedo ship the previous afternoon. There had been another man I didn't recognize onboard – Rock, I think his name was. Revy had explained to me that he was the newest addition to the crew, and I shouldn't pay too much attention to him. I had just laughed. It seems as though she didn't like the poor guy very much – and he seems absolutely terrified of her.

A square of light shines through the tiny porthole window and into the room, illuminating my new living quarters. I can stand with my arms outstretched in the middle of the room and touch both walls without having to extend my fingers. There's a small bed opposite the door, running lengthways down the room. The tiny footlocker at the end of the bed takes up any and all remaining space between the north and south walls. Everything on the boat is downsized – there are only two cabins (I have the one, Revy has the other). The hold is relatively small as well – Duke and Micky sleep in there on a couple of blow-up mattresses. Upstairs is the control room, built basically into the bowels of the ship. Only half of it sticks up out onto the deck. On deck, there are twin torpedo tubes, loaded of course. One on each side of the ship. There's a small gun turret ontop of the control room.

Groaning, I roll over, forgetting that I'm already on the edge of the bed. The ship sways a little as I land with a thud on the floor. I groan again, clutching the side of my head and trying the rub the sleep out of my eyes with my other hand.

I blink, bleary-eyed, and try to focus on my camping bed, which is all blurry and distorted. My head is throbbing. I push myself to my feet and support myself on both of the walls as the boat lurches again in the water.

Sighing, I open my footlocker and pull out a couple of clothes, many of them Remy's hand-me-downs. My eyesight has adjusted, and I look down at the assortment of garments. It's a meagre selection – a pair of faded denim dungarees, a red and white striped bikini, a blue tank top and a pair of black shorts.

Pouting, I pull the dungarees and tank top aside, throwing the rest of the clothes back into my footlocker and kicking the metal lid shut.

…

An hour later, Duke is powering the boat at full speed towards the pirate's haven - Roanapur. We have a delivery to receive, its destination unknown. Heck, I don't even know what _it_ is.

Revy and I sit on the deck of the torpedo boat, and watch the salty sea spray bounce off the hull of the ship as it slices through the water. We sail past a massive dilapidated Buddha – the last shred of any hint that religion once existed in the city.

I can see the port in the distance. A couple of oil tankers and cargo shippers are docked in the wharf. There are privately owned jetties a little further down, with their own docking sheds. Dutch angles the ship towards one of them.

A few minutes later, the torpedo boat is floating outside one of the docking sheds. Rock climbs out of the control room and tethers the boat to a railing on the jetty. Revy and I stand up. The door to the docking shed is open. It's dark inside, and it looks decrepit. Mouldy cardboard boxes are lying in one corner, while a shaft of dirty light coming down from the staircase leading to the second floor illuminates what look like bloodstains on the concrete.

"This looks promising," I mumble as I follow Revy off the boat.

It smells like mildew in the docking shed. Revy leads Rock and me up the creaky stairs to the second floor. Needless to say, this room is better lit and maintained.

The floor is carpeted, and there are three couches arranged in a triangle around a small coffee table in the middle of the room. There is a large window looking out over the sea. In the corner next to that window, I see a whole lot of guns, stacked in neat piles on the floor. A grenade launcher is lying on one of the couches, and a few hunting knives are scattered across the coffee table, some with their sheaths off.

So, our new assignment is with the mafia. Lovely.

"You're early," a thick Russian accent drawls from somewhere out of sight.

Great. _Russian_ Mafia.

I have an inkling of an idea who it is that gave us the new assignment. To confirm my suspicions, Balalaika steps out from behind one of the pillars on either side of the front door. Her thick blonde hair is piled on top of her head, and a thick cigar pokes out from between her smirking lips. A jagged scar runs down her face and over her neck. But, it's never been the scars that scared me – it was always her eyes. Even now, as she casts her eyes over our small little group, I remember the first time I saw her. Her icy blue eyes looked completely dead, like there was nothing this life or the next could throw at her that she hadn't seen or experienced already.

"We make it our business to satisfy the customer," Rock replies with a smile, every bit the convincing businessman in his button-up shirt and tie. He keeps pulling at said tie nervously.

"And a well-paying customer, at that," Balalaika adds, blowing out a ring of smoke. "This shipment is quite large."

"Nothing we can't handle, I'm sure," Rock's smile has turned a little nervous.

"Hhmm," the Russian turns and walks through another door leading to a small storeroom. The rest of us follow.

A single naked light bulb hangs from the cracked ceiling. On either side of the room are rows of industrial shelving. A few big, intimidating men are standing on both sides of the doorway. Inside the room, crates upon crates of assorted weapons are stacked against the walls and on the shelves.

"Is this all the goods?" Revy asks, folding her arms and scanning the crates with a critical eye.

"Yes. My men will load them onto your boat. I have discussed their destination with Dutch," Balalaika says bluntly and walks away. "Payment will be received upon delivery," she adds over her shoulder. She stands by the window and takes another long drag on her cigar.

The large men start silently carrying the crates downstairs to the boat. Rock goes with them. I don't think he likes Fry Face any more than I do.

"Who's the kid?" the Russian suddenly asks, not turning away from the window.

"My little sister," Revy replies, leaning on the wall, out of the way of the men.

Balalaika turns and studies me with her dead eyes. I find it hard suppressing the chill that wants to run up and down my spine. I doubt she will remember me from the last time we met – I was a lot younger then.

"She looks a little young for this line of work," she says, blowing out a long, steady stream of smoke.

"Special circumstances," Revy answers. She yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Never forget your manners in front of a Russian.

Balalaika pauses. She looks out the window again before saying, "Can she be trusted? I don't want this delivery botched because of some loudmouth kid."

"Hey!" I protest. "I can do the job just as well as any other person!"

The Russian turns her gaze on me. Sometimes, I wish I could keep my big mouth shut. Her eyes meet mine. It feels like a jagged piece of ice is being forced down my spine, but I refuse to look away. After what seems like forever, Balalaika smiles and averts her gaze, looking out the window again.

"She's got spirit, I'll give her that much." Her voice turns serious. "But, if that brat proves detrimental to the delivery…you know what will happen."

The concealed threat gives me goosebumps. Just then, I hear Dutch calling for Revy and I to come back down to the boat. Gratefully, I almost run from the room. Revy is right behind me. It seems she got the same message I did.

In a few moments, we're all back on the boat and speeding away from the harbour, out to the open sea. As Revy and I head down to the hold to check on the cargo, I say with a shiver, "Is it just me, or does that Russian give you the chills?"

"You don't want to be on her bad side, that's for sure," Rock replies, following us down, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dress pants.

Revy snorts. I push the door to the hold open and look inside. All the boxes are as the Russians left them – neatly stacked against the walls. I'm just about to close the door when something catches my eye.

A rogue box, sliding around in the middle of the room. I walk inside and try to push it back in place, but it jumps. Yes, it jumps. I shout and fall backwards as the boat lurches on the waves. We must have sailed right into that storm we had seen on the horizon earlier.

"Jamey, what the hell are you doing?" Revy growls, taking a step into the room.

Just then, the box jumps again. I can hear something hammering and scratching from the inside. One of the side panels on the crate starts to crack, as if something is kicking it from the inside.

The crate slides towards me and I scuttle backwards, still on the floor. The wood of the crate suddenly gives in, fragmenting and sending splinters flying all over the cargo hold. I shout again and cover my face with my arm. Revy and Rock shout out as the boat lurches again, throwing the two of them against the wall.

Something dark bursts out of the crate and pins me to the floor, its hands wrapping around my throat and squeezing. My head hits the wall, hard, and stars dance in front of my eyes.

"What the hell?" Revy exclaims, pushing herself up off the floor and starting towards the black-clad boy slowly strangling the life out of me.

"Not another move!" he shouts. His eyes are wild, his blonde hair ruffled and covered in straw from the crate. "Anyone comes any closer, and she gets it!"

I can't breathe. I'm gasping like a fish out of water, but no air is getting to my lungs. The boy is much heavier than me – it feels like a ton of bricks just landed on my legs. I'm pulling at his hands, but they're not budging. Spots start swirling in front of my eyes, polka dancing with the stars.

"Where am I?" the boy questions, glaring accusingly at Revy.

"Somewhere out on the Indian Ocean, kid," she replies, glaring back. "Now let her go. What are you gonna do all the way out here?"

"Shut up!" the boy shouts, screwing his eyes closed and shaking his head. "You're lying!"

The boat rocks again. "Does that feel like I'm lying?" Revy shouts. She can probably see I'm going blue in the face.

The boy's grip slackens a tiny bit, but just enough to give me some air. Gasping in a lungful, I aim my fist for his stomach.

As my knuckles make contact, the boat bounces and throws all of us off the floor. I kick the boy away from me in mid-air (that would have a pretty good replay value).

We all crash back down onto the floor again. The boy lands hard on the destroyed crate and is still. Revy is over by my side in seconds. She lifts my head up and I break into a coughing fit, gasping lungful's of precious air.

"You okay, kiddo?" Revy asks, looking down at me.

I nod my head and ease myself into a sitting position. My neck feels bruised, like the rest of my body. My split lip is bleeding again. I look over at the unconscious stowaway.

"What the hell?" I say.

…

A couple of minutes later, I'm sitting with Benny in his computer room, next to the control room. I hold an icepack to my temple to ease my throbbing headache. The glaring green lights from the computer screens do nothing to ease it. With the other hand, I'm holding a rag to my lip to stop the bleeding. With things going like this, I'm sure it will never heal.

I'm listening to Revy and Dutch arguing in the next room. She flings something at the wall and it shatters. I hear Rock desperately trying to calm her down, but she ignores him completely.

"Since when have we become human traffickers?" she shouts.

"This is Hotel Moscow we're talking about!" Dutch rallies. "How am I supposed to turn down a deal from them?"

"That little bastard could have killed Jamey!" Revy smashes something again, this time on what sounds like the control desk. "Would that have been worth the money, Dutch, huh?"

"You're damaging my boat!" Dutch says angrily. "Unless you can get that hot head of yours to cool down pretty fast, you're off this boat at the next port!"

"You can't afford to get rid of me!" Revy snarls viciously.

"Is that a challenge?" Dutch retorts calmly.

I hear Revy growl in frustration, and the door leading to the main deck slam shut.

My thoughts turn towards the blonde boy tied up in the cargo hold. He had knocked himself out cold when he fell on the crate. What had he done to get him in this situation? I remember the frightened, almost animal-like look in his eyes when he attacked me. I had felt like that a lot in the past.

Dutch opens the door and pokes his shiny head in. Great – another light reflecting object to add to my headache.

"Benny-Boy, you're on watch duty first. Make sure the kid doesn't hurt himself again," he says.

"Yes boss," Benny sighs, standing up from his chair and dragging himself down to the cargo hold.

"How's your head?" Dutch then asks me, motioning for me to come into the control room. "Still hurts?"

I wince and answer. "Not as bad as before. Why is that kid down there?"

The heavily-muscled man sighs and sits down in his chair. He swivels to look out over the churning sea and the dark storm clouds, the ones that had tossed us around earlier. I lean against the cold steel wall.

"His father refused to sell his coalfields to Balalaika. And you know her… always on the quest for revenge and that stuff. She's shipping the kid off to South America. Some port in Brazil, I don't know," Dutch shook his head. "I hate it when she brings us into her personal screw-ups. Ruins our reputation."

I hear something banging outside, followed by a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. I piece together that Revy must have kicked one of the torpedo tubes and come off second best.

Rock sighed from his position on the stairwell leading down to the lower level of the ship. "She's going to hurt herself just now."

Snorting, I push the door open and climb out onto the deck. It's slippery, and a light drizzle is still coming down. Abandoning my ice pack and rag on the stairs, I hold onto the guardrail and make my way to where Revy is clutching her foot as she sits at the base of the gun turret.

I shake my head and drop down onto the wet steel beside her. "Serves you right," I say, "attacking a defenceless torpedo like that." I click my tongue. "Disgraceful."

"Shut it, brat," she growls, glaring at me as she rocks backwards and forwards.

The wind whistles through my ears, numbing them and other extremities. The cold rain is washing the streaming blood from my lip off my face. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lick my lips. It stings a little.

"That little bastard," Revy mumbles under her breath. She's glaring at the deck. "If I ever get my hands on him…"

"Don't be too hard on him, Revs," I say, even though I can understand her point of view. But, there are always three sides to a story – hers, his and the truth somewhere in the middle.

"He tried to strangle you!" she shouts above the wind. "Don't you realize that? He could have killed you!"

"I know that!" I reply. "But just remember – I was like that not so long ago. He was scared, that's all. Don't take it too personally."

"You definitely hit your head too hard," Revy mumbles angrily, drawing her knees up and draping her arms around them.

"Maybe, but that's not the point," I pull a tongue at her. "I understand where he's coming from, Revy. If that had been me, hell, I would have ripped his eyes out first chance I got."

Revy grins maliciously.

"I'm not giving you permission to do it!" I add hurriedly.

We sit in silence for a few moments. Eventually, the steady drizzle manages to soak through the thick denim of my dungarees and the wind turns the water to ice. I start shivering.

"I'm f-freezing," I stutter, standing up. The boat rocks again on the choppy seas and I almost topple over. Grabbing hold of the guardrail, I edge my way back to the door. "I'm g-going inside."

Even though she won't admit it, I know Revy's cold, too. She's still wearing her denim shorts and sleeveless shirt. She gets up and follows me inside. Back in the control room, Dutch and Rock are sipping from mugs of coffee. Dutch points to three other mugs on the desk.

"One of you go take a mug down to Benny and swap watches with him," he says, not turning away from the magazine he's reading. "It sounds like he's having a little trouble."

I can see the murderous look in Revy's eyes. Before she can grab the mug, I snatch it and head down the stairs, giving her a warning look. She rolls her eyes at me before picking up her own mug and taking a swig.

The hot mugs in my hands start to warm me up as I reach the cargo hold. I open the door, and Benny almost crashes into me.

"Get that kid away from me!" he gasps, flattening himself against the wall behind me.

I roll my eyes and shove the steaming mug towards him. "Take this and go upstairs," I sigh irritably.

That boy was supposed to be gagged and bound. Unless Benny was just playing the fool.

The computer geek gratefully accepts the mug and scurries upstairs, leaving me to face the prisoner alone. Snorting, I push the door open fully and step inside. Closing it behind me, I turn and look around the room.

The prisoner is sitting on top one of the ammunition crates, with his wrists bound behind his back and his mouth gagged with a piece of black cloth. Dutch had tethered him to one of the gas pipes running up the side of the wall so he can't move. Needless to say, the prisoner looks pretty pissed.

He glares at me as I sit down in the corner. He starts struggling against his ropes, kicking out and cursing under the gag. I regard him coolly.

He looks about my age, maybe a little older, with an athletic build. His hair is dirty blonde. His green eyes are burning angrily. There are a few livid bruises across his cheek, and down one side of his neck. His shirt is dirty and torn. I can tell that the Russians hadn't been too gentle with him. A classic 'sons paying for the sins of the fathers' scenario, I guess.

I yawn and take a cautious sip of coffee from the warm mug in my hands. The bitter liquid singes my tongue, and I pull a face, setting the mug down on the wooden bench running the length of the room. I hate coffee without sugar.

The boy kicks the crate nearest to him angrily one last time, and then settles down, chest heaving.

My wet clothes are starting to make me shiver. I wish I had changed into something dry before I had come down here. Reaching under the wooden bench, I drag out a clear plastic box. Inside the box are a couple of blankets that Dutch, Benny and Rock use when they sleep down here. I take one out and shove the box back under the bench. Standing, I drape the blanket across my shaking shoulders and take a couple of steps towards the boy. He eyes me suspiciously.

He flinches when I move my hand closer to his face, but I ignore it. Reaching out, I take the gag out of his mouth. Hell, I knew if I was him that I wouldn't appreciate some dirty old rag being shoved down my throat.

As soon as the gag is off, I know I had made a mistake. Immediately, the boy opens his mouth and starts shouting his head off.

"Help!" he shouts, kicking me away. "Someone get me out of here!"

Sighing, I drop my blanket on the floor and slap my hand over his mouth before he gets me in trouble with Dutch and Revy. Growling, he tries to bite my palm.

I'm getting irritated now. Changing hands, I smack his head against the wall. His curses come out muffled against my hand.

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," I say, pinning him to the wall by his shoulder with my other hand. "The easy way – you shut up and we don't have any problems. The hard way – you keep shouting your head off, and I'll have your foot shoved down your throat instead of the gag. Are we clear?"

The boy doesn't answer. He just glares at me accusingly.

"I so much as hear a loud cough from you, and you'll be dangling from the torpedo tubes until we reach the next port," I continue threateningly, not dropping eye contact.

"I'm going to take my hand away now," I say slowly, still looking him in the eye to make my point clear. "Not a word, understand?"

The boy nods tersely, and I take my hand away slowly. I back away, bending down to pick up my blanket. I settle back down in my corner, still looking at him suspiciously.

The boy snorts and leans against the wall, his one knee drawn up. He closes his eyes and sighs.

I yawn again and rub my eyes. They feel gritty. I rest my head against the cool steel wall and close my eyes. Without meaning to, I give into cold and exhaustion and fall asleep.

…

When I next open my eyes, the boy is staring at me. This time, instead of suspicion and anger in his eyes, they look curious, maybe even a little confused. I stifle another yawn and push myself into a sitting position, stretching my cramped arms and legs.

"What?" I ask, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Some of the cold and weariness has seeped out my bones.

"Nothing," he mumbles, turning his head away. I can't place his accent – Irish, maybe?

After a few moments of silence, the boy turns his head to look at me again. "I'm sorry for jumping you earlier," he says hesitantly. I can tell he feels that he shouldn't be apologizing to a lowly pirate like me.

"S'okay," I reply, covering my mouth with the back of my hand as another yawn assails me. I shake my head to bring me out of my drowsiness. "I would've done the same thing in your position."

Why am I explaining myself?

"Did I give you all those cuts and bruises?" I realize he just wants to settle his nagging conscience.

I snort derisively, looking at the floor. He was probably brought up in a house that taught that the proper way to treat girls was not to hit them.

"Na," I reply, shaking a hand dismissively. "These happened long before you."

The boy frowns, and then nods.

The mug of coffee next to me is still warm, sort of like my own miniature heater. I obviously hadn't been sleeping that long. I realize that the boy, in his short sleeve shirt in this below-temperature hold, is shivering but trying not to show it.

For some unexplainable reason, or maybe it was just my good side making a rare appearance, I pick up the mug and offer it to him. "Coffee? It's not poisoned or anything."

The boy looks at the mug suspiciously before slowly nodding his head. I push myself up and walk over. I look at his bound wrists. It would be pretty impossible to drink coffee with your hands behind your back, unless you could use your feet like a monkey.

I motion for him to straighten up. I hesitate with my hand just above the knot, deciding whether this is going to get me into trouble with Dutch or not. Though, what would this kid do all the way out here at sea? There are four of us and one of him.

"You're not going to jump me again, are you?" I ask cautiously

The boy snorts and smiles wryly. "No, not this time."

Frowning, I undo the knot with one hand. The prisoner sits up properly, rubbing his chafed wrists and grimacing. I hold the coffee mug out to him. I'm not going to drink it, anyway. Too bitter.

He accepts the mug and takes a long draught. Half the mug is gone within five seconds. I sit down on the bench, a couple of feet away from him. The blanket is still wound around my shoulders. I tense, making sure I'm ready to intercept if he decides to go for any of the weapon crates.

"Who was that wimp who was down here earlier?" the boy asks, resting his arm on his knee.

"Benny? He's harmless," I reply dismissively, resting my head against the wall. "All he does it sit up in his little computer room and chat to his cyber-buddies all day."

"Harmless? Didn't seem that way to me," he growled.

"You probably spooked him," I said with a short, humourless laugh. "He's not used to this kind of stuff."

I fall silent. The boy nods, but says nothing. He takes another swig from the coffee mug. I pull my legs up onto the wooden bench and cross them underneath me. I'm freezing my arse off, still wearing all my wet clothes. The blanket isn't helping very much.

"What are you doing here? On this ship?" the boy suddenly asks, not looking at me.

"I could ask you the same thing," I reply.

A small smile curls the one side of his mouth. "What I meant was, you seem so different from everyone else."

"Explain," I prompt, a confused frown wrinkling my forehead.

"Those Russians, that…Balalaika," the boy answers, looking over his shoulder at me. "You're not like them. You, at least, seem human."

I give a short, humourless laugh and tip my head backwards, staring at the ceiling. "Human? You haven't seen me on a bad day," I mumble.

The boy gives a laugh too, shaking his head and taking another swig of coffee. "What's your name, kid?" he questions, putting the empty mug next to him on the crate.

"Jamey," I reply uncertainly. Should I really be giving him that information? As soon as he's off this boat, who knows where he'll be or what he'll end up doing?

"That's a strange name for a girl," he smirks. "Mine's weirder, though."

"Weirder?" I repeat sarcastically, cocking an eyebrow.

"The name's Griffin," the boy looks at me, grinning broadly. He offers me a hand and I look at it for a few moments until it dawns at me that he wants me to shake it. I grasp it uncertainly. "Griffin McCord."

"So, Jamey, why're you running around with all these pirates?" Griffin asks, leaning against the pipe.

"My sister works with this crew, and I joined a couple of days ago," I reply. I have a brief flashback of my parent's bloodied bodies in their bedroom, and I shake my head to clear the sinister image.

"Your sister?" Griffin looks surprised. "This hardly seems like a family-orientated business."

"Special circumstances," I mumble, looking away. I remember the sharp, metallic smell of blood.

"You a runaway?" he asks suddenly.

I snort and smile crudely. "You could say that."

I can tell without looking at him that Griffin is eyeing my split lip and bruises. Sure enough, when I look at him, he averts his gaze guiltily.

"What about you?" I ask tonelessly. "The Russians weren't very happy with you, by the looks of things."

Griffin looks down at his torn shirt and laughs humourlessly. "They went after my old dad about something I don't care about and I ended up getting the raw end of a deal gone sour."

"If it's one thing I know, it's not to mess with Hotel Moscow," I mumble, almost to myself.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he grumbles, holding his head on one of his hands. "That sorry excuse of a father of mine didn't want to listen and now look where it's gotten me."

"Sounds like you don't get on with him much," I observe, quirking an eyebrow and frowning.

"Let's just say we never really saw eye to eye on a lot of things," Griffin looks angry. "Bloody bastard would beat anyone who disagreed with him."

I can see how similar our situations, although on opposite sides of the world, really are.

"I know what that feels like," I say softly.

Griffin looks at me curiously. He looks like he wants to ask me something, but thinks better of it the next minute. We sink into an icy silence; each wrapped up in our own thoughts.

"Is that why you ran away?" he asks quietly. It takes me a few moments to realize that he's said anything.

"Part of the reason," I reply, looking up at the ceiling. Even to me, my tone seems colder.

"And what's the other part?" Griffin's mouth curls up into a half-smile as he asks me.

"I killed them."

I don't look to see if he's still smiling or not.

**Don't forget to review for chapter 5! :3**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm Yu – ah, thanks for that :) I shall go back and fix that up promptly. It's quite annoying how some grammatical errors always seem to slip past without one realizing it…**

**Well, here's the next chapter! (hopefully error-free) :D**

**Chapter five – Drunken escapades**

It takes us a further five days of hard sailing until we reach the port of Fortaleza, on the North coast of Brazil. Our food supplies are running low, and we need to refuel the ship.

In some desperate need of air, I almost fling myself overboard in my haste to get out of the cabin and onto the deck. Revy pulls me back by the collar of my shirt, sighing.

"Do I always have to keep an eye on you?" she smirks, handing me a long piece of rope that leads back down to the control room. A slight pressure from below alerts me that something is attached to the rope.

"I can look after myself!" I reply heatedly, clenching the rope in my fist. "I'm not a baby!"

"Good," Revy seems chuffed and she walks past me. "Then that means it won't be any trouble for you to look after the passenger for the day, will it?"

I realize, as she jumps nimbly off the boat and onto the pier, that Revy has duped me once again.

"Aw, come on!" I howl angrily, throwing my hands to the sky. "You have GOT to be kidding me!"

As she walks away, Revy looks over her shoulder at me and grins. "Have fun!" she laughs before blending into the crowds milling around the wooden walkway.

Sighing in exasperation, I tug impatiently on the rope and wait for Griffin to climb out on deck. Dutch is right behind him, followed by Rock.

"Don't get lost," the captain pats me on the shoulder and smirks. "Meet us back here by twelve. Balalaika's contacts in Rio expect the cargo to be in good condition on arrival – all of it."

I don't miss the hidden command in his statement. I snarl at him as he walks past. Rock looks guilty and shrugs helplessly, following Dutch and leaving me to baby-sit Griffin.

The rope is tied securely around his waist. Almost self-consciously, he tugs his black shirt over it, hiding it from view. He squints in the sunlight. Both he and I are too used to the dim hold of the boat. I had only been up on deck three times in the past five days. Most of the time, I had been either watching Griffin or catching up on my sleep. I feel as though the weariness will never seep out of my old bones.

"Come on," I sigh, tying the rope around my wrist with a double sailor's knot to make sure he doesn't get away. I lead him off the boat and onto the creaky pier. "We need to get you some new clothes."

The atmosphere in the marketplace is stifling – the heat of hundreds of sweaty, overcrowded bodies mingling with the spicy scents of the various food stalls. The salty tang of the sea and the raucous calls of the gulls' overhead add to the vibrant mood.

I have to admit – Griffin is fairly good at following me through the dense crowds of people, animals and the occasional stray livestock.

I have never been to this part of Brazil before, so I am a little lost. I'm just lucky I'm fluent in Portuguese; otherwise Griffin and I will never make it anywhere vaguely clothing-related.

Griffin and I duck into the shelter of a dingy, over packed clothing stall, out of the way of the bustling crowds outside. Its roof is dipping outwards, making a little alcove to escape the heat.

I'm sweating from the sweltering heat, and I'm betting Griffin is, too. I can see him breathing heavily in the stuffy air.

"Better get this over with," I mumble, pushing into the stall.

Racks and racks of clothing are packed densely over what little floor space there is, and they all smell like mothballs. Lots of designer handbags line the shabby walls – cheap imitations of expensive brands, probably all made in China. At the far end of the stall, there is a little section quartered off for change rooms and a small sales counter.

I untie the rope from around my wrist and hold it tightly, looking Griffin in the eye.

"You're not going to make a run for it, are you?" I ask seriously.

He grins at me and shakes his head. "You know this place better than I do. I would get lost as soon as I stepped out onto the street."

I am about to tell him that I am as hopeless as he is, but think better of it at the last moment. I just smile back knowingly and say, "Don't pick anything too expensive – I'm on a budget, here."

Letting the rope trail on the floor as he walks away, I turn and look around me. It wouldn't be a bad decision if I got myself some new threads. I think I deserve it, after all. I look down at my threadbare hiking boots, moth-eaten shorts and overly large t-shirt. Definitely not a bad decision.

Before I could turn my back to the sales counter to go look at the clothes, something next to the change rooms catches my eye. A grin lights up my face as I see a pair of knock-off Doc Martins sitting on their cardboard box, waiting for their rightful owner to pick them up and take them home. Oh, how they call to me…

They look just like the pair Revy has. I take a few long strides over to them and snatch the precious boot off the floor, holding them close. I feel like that creepy little dude from Lord of the Rings. It takes all my willpower to stop from cuddling the boots close to my face and murmuring, "My precious!"

I look at the price tag and smirk in glee. I could do with a little less new clothing… for now. The cashier behind the desk is a balding man in his late forties. He looks dead tired and boiling in this humidity. There is no sign of a fan anywhere in the shop. It kind of makes me feel sorry for the guy.

I hand him the cash and he seems to perk up a bit as he shoves the wrinkled notes into his tin moneybox. Sitting down on the floor with my back against the counter, I yank off my old boots and tug on my new ones. I sigh happily. They fit like a dream, with just enough space between the toe of the boot and my foot to ensure me that they'll last longer than a couple of weeks. The boots are a mossy green colour, with black edging around the heel and rubber toecaps. The soles are nice and thick, with no holes in them. I shove my old, destroyed boots in the cardboard box and leave them in front of the counter. Someone else can have them.

Standing up, I move off to browse among them moth-eaten cloth racks. The noisy atmosphere from outside filters into the small shop, although a little quieter.

An hour and a half later, Griffin and I arrive back at the boat. Revy is sitting up on the gun turret, smoking a cigarette with a bottle of beer next to her leg.

"Enjoy the trip?" she smirks as Griffin and I climb on board.

The ship rocks on the waves underneath. "Did you get the stuff?" I ask curtly, motioning for Griffin to go below deck. He looks like he can't wait to get away from my sister's icy gaze.

Revy pats the railing of the gun turret. "Filled up and ready to go."

"When are we leaving?" I drop the plastic bags I'm carrying to the floor.

"Tomorrow afternoon," Revy replies.

"Tomorrow afternoon?" I splutter.

"Dutch and the rest of us need a little time to rest, Jamey," Revy grins at me. "After all, we have been sailing for six days straight. I think we deserve it. Anyway, we're going out for drinks tonight. You can come, if you want."

I growl in frustration and kick my bags down the hatch, before following them in. I can hear Revy chuckling as I slam the hatch shut. I take Griffin back to the hold and apologetically lock the door. It must be boiling in there.

Down in my room, I empty the packets out onto my bed. It seems to groan under the weight. I think that between Griffin and myself, we gave that shop owner the best business he's had in years.

…

To escape the heat of the day, I decide to take a swim in the sea. Revy, who is still sitting up on the gun turret, decides to join me. The water here isn't too polluted, with only a few plastic bottles and chip packets floating around in the current. Otherwise, the sea is crystal blue; so clear you can see the sand at the bottom of the harbour.

Content at finally getting some use out of my bikini, I jump off the deck and into the water with relish. The sea is warm, but still cools me down after a day in the market.

Revy jumps in after me, drenching me in salty water. We swim a little way away from the boat, to an area still shallow enough so we can stand on our tiptoes.

"This is heaven," Revy sighs, floating on her back in the water.

"Definitely," I agree, ducking under the water and coming back up.

I think guiltily about Griffin, locked in the hold. He must be dying of heatstroke by now. I'm just about to voice my thoughts to Revy when I see him with Dutch on the deck of the boat. Dutch doesn't look too pleased with my and Revy's antics.

"Dutch doesn't look too happy," I tell her, paddling around in the water regardless.

Revy squirts a stream of water out her mouth and grins. "He doesn't have to. I'm not sitting on that boat and sweating like a pig."

I laugh and agree with her. Getting in trouble with Dutch was worth the swim, definitely. Anyway, we were supposed to have the afternoon off, so what was to stop us? We weren't putting our delivery in jeopardy, or anything.

"Revy! You and Jamey had better get your buts back over here!" I hear Dutch shout across the water. "We have work to do!"

"Give us a break!" she calls back, her face still turned to the sky. "This is the only chance we'll get to actually enjoy ourselves a little before we get going again!"

"Revy!" Dutch warns. "Don't make me come and get you!"

"Go for it!" Revy laughs. I laugh with her. "You could use the water to cool your temper a bit!"

As Revy and I smile at each other and laugh, Dutch motions Griffin closer and whispers something in his ear. I can't hear what it is, but the next thing I see is Griffin tugging off his shirt and boots before diving off the deck and into the water.

"Rev, what's he doing?" I ask, tapping her on the shoulder and pointing at Griffin.

He's a fast swimmer and is heading towards us quickly. But, Revy and I are also natural-born swimmers and start edging away from him just as quickly.

Suddenly, Griffin breaks out in a full-speed freestyle. Revy and I turn and start swimming away from him. We split and circle around him. I don't know why, but he turns after me. Clenching my teeth in frustration, I keep my head down and focus on getting to the shore before Griffin can reach me. In the periods between my head coming up for air and going back underwater, I can hear Dutch laughing.

I glance to my right and see Revy climbing out of the water and onto the sandy beachfront. She's shouting angrily at Dutch and shaking her fist at him.

I'm almost at the shore. One last stretch…

Before I can reach it, something wraps itself around my ankle and pulls me backwards. I howl in rage underwater, releasing a stream of tiny bubbles. I thrust my head out of the water and see Griffin hauling me towards him like a fish. Whatever Dutch asked him to do, he's enjoying it. I try to kick him away, but he tugs on my ankle and grabs my arms when I'm near enough.

"What exactly did Dutch ask you to do?" I growl, trying to break out of his hold.

Griffin wraps his toned arms more securely around me, making sure I can't get away. One is wound around my shoulders, and the other around my waist as he marches me along infront of him in the water. "He said if I brought one of you back, he'd let me go out drinking with you guys tonight."

I snort. "And why me?"

Griffin grins at me. "I wasn't exactly going to tackle your sister, now was I?"

I sigh resignedly. Well, I had a good time while it lasted.

…

Later that afternoon, as the sun is setting, Dutch, Benny, Rock, Revy, Griffin and I hit the town. The streets are just as crowded as if it were midday, except it's slightly cooler now that the sun is going down. The last glowing rays paint everything gold, giving it a magical aura. Keep in mind, this is probably the salt starting to addle my brain. I'm never usually this poetic.

As we walk along the crowded, dusty street, I start to think that the jeans I bought are a little tight. But, I don't mind. I'm wearing one of the sleeveless shirts I got, and a cropped bomber jacket over it. My Doc Martins kick up clouds of dust with every step I take. My Berettas are strapped around my waist, just like Revy's. For once, I've left my long hair hang loose around my shoulders.

In these dense crowds, Dutch is worried Griffin might try and slip away. So, I've got the rope tied around my wrist again. He's trailing behind me, seemingly lost in thought, but with a ghost of a smile on his face. I guess he must think this is heaven after being locked in the hold for six days straight.

Spicy scents drift from the many different stalls we walk past. The streets start to widen out into paved avenues. Weeds poke out through the cracked cobblestones. Heading into the older part of the town, Dutch leads us to a bar called The Leak. That sounds promising.

Inside, it smells of sweat and stale beer. My ears soon start to ring as everyone shouts to the person sitting right next to them. Dutch finds six stools at the bar counter and signals for the bartender.

"You drink much?" I shout to Griffin as he takes the stool next to me.

He grins and nods his head. "Like a fish."

"Let's hope you can handle it," I reply, smirking.

Next to me, Revy flashes me a grin. "Up for a little drinking game, kid?"

"You know I am!" I laugh back as the bartender sets down six mugs of beer, one in front of each of us.

Benny, observing the conversation from next to Revy, bangs his fist on the counter to signal us to start. I grab the handle of my glass and chug down the bitter liquid in it. The last drop passes my lips, and I slam the mug back down on the counter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Revy's glass is down a second after mine. I look over at Griffin. He's still chugging. Five seconds later his glass goes down.

"Jamey wins!" Benny declares. "Round two, bartender!"

Our glasses are filled again. I grin at Griffin and Revy, taking hold of the handle of the mug. "Cheers!"

…

Half an hour and fifteen mugs of beer later, I'm completely pickled. I hiccup and get off my chair unsteadily. It feels like I'm floating on air as I take a couple of steps to steady myself. Revy has her head propped up on the palm of her hand, with her elbow on the counter.

"Is that all you got?" she slurs, blinking at me.

I laugh and hiccup again. The lights start dancing in front of my eyes, flashing a whole rainbow of different colours. "I'm not nearly finissshed," I reply, throwing an arm around both her and Griffin's shoulders.

The noise in the tavern seems to intensify. I feel full of energy all of a sudden. I lurch unsteadily towards to door, dragging Griffin with me via the rope. He stopped drinking at ten glasses, and was slightly less drunk than me.

"Get back to the boat, Jamey," Dutch says, bent over his own glass of rum.

"Boat…right."

"Where're you goin'?" Griffin asks gripping my arm to stop himself from falling over as we stumble around the room.

Dodging other drunken customers, I reach the door and push it open. Cold night air slaps me in the face, quite refreshingly. "Outside."

I stumble into the darkness. Golden light from the tavern spills out onto the street. I can smell the salt of the sea and hear the crashing of the waves. A few people are still milling around the marketplace.

"Let's go exshplore the town!" I grab Griffin's arm and set off towards the stalls.

Laughing, he follows. I whoop loudly and hi-five him. "Drunk as a pair of skunkssss, we are!" I chant.

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	6. Chapter 6

**The only reason I'm uploading this chapter is because I feel guilty about not updating this for the people who have favourited and alerted this story :/**

**If people want another chapter after this, you're going to have to review! And if you're not liking it, **_**tell me so I can fix it and make it better so you will.**_

**Chapter six - Guilty conscience**

The next morning, I wake up in my room with a pounding headache the force of an earthquake measuring ten on the Richter scale. My mouth tastes like copper, and my eyelids are heavy. The boat seems to be lurching and tossing like a leaf in a hurricane. I roll over onto my stomach, my one arm flopping off the side of the bed and onto the floor. I want to throw up when I move.

I open my eyes tenderly, one at a time. It's light outside. Sunlight filters through my porthole window. The light just adds to my headache. My memories of last night are sketchy at best. Sitting up slowly, I run a hand over my face. When it passes over the bridge of my nose, I yelp out in pain.

Standing, I stumble over to the small mirror behind my door and groggily examine my face in its reflection. Between my eyes, on the bridge of my nose, a pair of fake diamonds glint in the sunlight.

"Whoa." I definitely do not remember getting _that_.

A thin bridge of metal runs under my skin, linking the two studs. The skin around the piercing hurts when I touch it. The middle of my face looks red, like someone's kicked a ball at me.

I turn my face slightly to the left, and then to the right, examining the jewels. I squint at the mirror, making sure I'm not hallucinating. Unfortunately, I'm not. Now, to add to the four piercings in my left ear, my eyebrow ring, and my belly ring, I have this. Oh, well. It looks cool, at least.

I groan as my head starts throbbing again. Breathing a long sigh through my nose, I realize I'm still wearing my clothes from last night. I change my shirt and jeans for a pair of shorts and a halterneck. I tug on my bomber jacket and keep my Doc Martins. They are my only shoes, after all. Whipping my tangled hair into a high ponytail, I tumble out into the corridor. The boat seems to be lurching all over the place, but I know that it's just my hangover making itself known. I manage to haul myself into the control room.

Revy is on duty, with her boots resting on the dashboard and a cigarette in her hand. She glances at me over her shoulder. "Morning, sleeping beauty. How's the hangover?"

I groan and stumble into the chair next to her. "Feels like there's an elephant sitting on my head."

Revy chuckles and blows out a steady stream of smoke. "Been a long time since you've had that many stiff drinks, hey?"

"Yeah, tell me about it," I mutter, cradling my head on my fingertips. The gentle lapping of the waves on the hull of the boat sounds like thunder claps.

"What's the time?" I ask, screwing my eyes shut and taking a deep breath.

"Half past eleven," Remy replies, staring out over the waves. "We're leaving in twenty minutes."

I nod. "By the way," I say casually, pointing to my face. "What the hell is this?"

Revy laughs and take her feet down off the control panel. She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray next to her.

"That's what happens when you get so smashed you can't even remember what day of the week it is," she says with a grin.

I huff indignantly. "Of course I can remember what day of the week it is!" I look away angrily. "It's Tuesday!"

"Thursday, actually," Remy replies, smirking.

I groan and let my head flop down onto the control panel, aggravating my headache even more.

…

Half an hour later, I'm sitting up on deck watching the boat slice through the crystal blue waves of the ocean. We're making our way down the east coat of South America to Rio de Janeiro.

The wind whistles past my face. The throbbing in my temples has sort of died down, and the cold air is cooling down my flushed face. I squint and screw my eyes shut a couple of times. I'm still getting used to the piercing between my eyes. It still feels a little weird.

The boat is making its way down the coast to another port, where we'll refuel and then carry on straight to Rio. Revy had said to me that it should take us no more than seven more hours to get there.

For some reason, I seem to be in a reflective mood. I think back to when Dutch had first accepted this job from Balalaika. I don't think he or anyone else aboard the boat would have thought that our business card would mention human trafficking as a service.

My thoughts automatically turn to Griffin. Revy had tied his wrists to the staircase leading down to the hold. She was watching him when I came above deck. I feel bad for him. I really do. The more time I had spent with him over the past couple of days, the more I realised that he and I have a lot in common. Griffin is sort of like a friend to me now. I can't bring myself to think of what will happen to him when we deliver our cargo in Rio.

The thought of it turns my stomach. I force myself to think of something else. Anything else.

Seven long, painful hours later, the sun is setting over the harbour in Rio. Brights lights are flickering on and I can hear music from a bar floating over the waters. I go below deck and find Revy at the dashboard. Worry is gnawing at the pit of my stomach. I really don't want anything bad to happen to Griffin. I know I shouldn't be concerned about it, but I can't help it.

"Where's Dutch?" I ask her, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

"Down in the cargo hold," she answers, looking intently out the window. I know she's been itching to get here so she can get rid of Griffin. She hates him. "He's checking that everything is good for delivery."

I know she means _checking that the brat is ready to go._ I sigh and make my way down to the cargo hold. I need to ask him what's going to happen to Griffin. I push open the iron door leading into the hold and can't help but think of the time when Griffin almost strangled me to death in there. A small smile curves my lips. I still think I could have beaten him if he hadn't taken me by surprise.

Dutch is busy binding Griffin's wrist with black cable tie. Griffin isn't struggling. He just looks…sad, almost resigned to his fate. I frown and step inside, shutting the door behind me.

Both of them look up at me. A flicker of annoyance crosses Dutch's face, but Griffin smiles. It's a sad smile, though.

"I thought I told you to stay on deck and keep a lookout," Dutch says, adjusting the cable tie once more before standing up.

"Look out for what? Flying sharks?" I reply sarcastically. "There's nothing out there, Dutch. Revy's pulling up to the dock even as we speak."

Dutch snorts and shakes his head. "You're really bad at following orders."

"You're not the first person who's told me that," I mumble, sitting on the wooden bench. I look at Griffin and offer a weak smile. Neither of us knows what's going to happen to the other after the drop off.

Dutch looks at the two of us, sighs, and motions for me to follow him outside. When I protest, he says, "I need you to help me dock the boat when we get there. And anyway, I don't want you getting any funny ideas about getting him out of those cable ties when I'm not looking."

I roll me eyes but follow him outside the hold anyway. Dutch stops me on the stairwell. "Griffin isn't your problem, Jamey. Don't think about it," he says sternly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mumble, not looking at him. I fold my arms and frown. I don't want Griffin to be sold off like some piece of meat. I know enough about him to know that he doesn't deserve what fate Balalaika's given him.

"Yes you do," Dutch grips my shoulder and I look up at him, peeved. "I know you don't agree with human trafficking. Neither does your sister. But this is Hotel Moscow we're talking about. If the boy doesn't get delivered because of your conscience, then we'll all be in deep shit. Understand?"

I nod my head tersely and brush past him up the stairs. I keep walking until I'm out on the top deck again. I drop down next to a torpedo tube and rest my head on the cool metal. There are tears in my eyes and I'm angry with myself because of that. I shouldn't be crying over someone I don't know.

Anyway, Griffin's not my problem anymore.

…

All too soon, we're docked in the port and I'm helping Benny offload the cargo into some Brazilian arms' dealer's pickup truck. The crates are heavy and it's taking both Benny and me about ten minutes to offload each bloody crate.

Revy pitches in and cuts that time in half. It takes us another hour to offload all the crates. Dutch comes up with Griffin and seats him in the back of the truck along with all the wooden crates. I can't look at him.

"Thanks, Dutch," the arms dealer shakes his hand and turns to get in the car. "I'll let Balalaika know that the shipment got here safely."

"Hold on, Lorenzo," Dutch puts a hand through the open window of the truck and takes hold of the steering wheel. "Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but I have to see that cargo safely delivered myself."

A flash of annoyance crosses Lorenzo's face and he frowns. "Fine," he says. He points over his shoulder. "But you and your crew ride back there."

Nodding, Dutch turns to Benny and says, "You and Rock watch the ship. We should be back in an hour."

Benny disappears below deck and I hop onto the back of the truck with Dutch and Revy. I sit next to Griffin and he looks me in the eye. He wants to say something, but he chickens out at the last minute.

I cast a quick glance in Dutch's direction, making sure he's not looking, and squeeze one of Griffin's bound hands. "I'm sure it'll be okay," I whisper.

The truck roars into life and I let go of Griffin's hand. Dutch and Revy settle in on either side of the wooden crates. I sigh and rest my head against the metal roll bar behind me. Griffin is completely silent.

It takes Lorenzo about twenty minutes to drive us through the empty back roads of Rio, to an abandoned warehouse on the other side of the harbour.

The sides of the roads are littered with garbage, and the smell is almost as bad as the sheer volume of junk in plain sight. I wrinkle my nose at the sight and smell of the decrepit section of shipping yard, but say nothing.

I risk a glance at Griffin – he's sitting with his back straight against the cab, staring right infront of him. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap.

Lorenzo stops the car and orders us off the back. "Help unload the stuff into the warehouse," he snaps, "seeing as you wanted to come along for the ride."

With Dutch helping instead of Benny, it takes us ten minutes to offload all twenty crates. I then help Griffin off the back of the truck. I take his bound wrists and say, not even looking him in the eye, "I'm sorry."

Right now, I feel completely useless. I don't want to see Griffin sold off to some random arms dealer for something he didn't do. But, I know Dutch's point of view. It's not a smart idea to mess with Balalaika.

Griffin grips one of my hands in his for a second. I look up at his face and he flashes me a weak smile. "Don't be," he says. "It's not your fault."

"Jamey! Hurry up!" Revy calls from infront of the truck.

Without another word, I help Griffin down from the back of the truck and try to ignore the irritating feeling of uneasiness that's settled itself in the pit of my stomach.

The four of us follow Lorenzo into the dim warehouse, surrounded by old shipping crates covered in rust and seagull crap.

The warehouse is lit by rows of fluorescent lights. The floor is made of industrial concrete and is covered by hundreds of steel shelving racks and gleaming silver tables. There's an odd smell in the warehouse – a mixture of something like antiseptic and something suspiciously similar to the metallic tang of blood.

Lorenzo stops at the first row of tables, where we had dumped the wooden crates. There are three other men standing there with him – one of the guys is obviously the man in charge, because he's wearing an expensive grey pinstripe suit and is smoking one of those fancy Cuban cigars that cost an arm and a leg. I snort in disdain. I hate the smell of cigar smoke. Reminds me too much of those cheap cigars the police used to smoke when I was still a little brat living on the streets.

The other two standing with him look a lot like bodyguards – dressed all in black and wearing sunglasses even at nine in the evening.

Dutch seems to know all of them. While Lorenzo stands and scowls on the sidelines, he shakes all three of the men's hands.

"Giovanni, I didn't know it was you to whom Balalaika wanted all this stuff delivered," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his khaki fatigues.

"I paid Hotel Moscow a lot of good money for this stuff, Dutch," Giovanni – the one in the expensive suit – says with a grin. "I see she put it in excellent hands to be delivered."

Dutch smiles. "I'm flattered, Giovanni. Balalaika said payment would be received upon delivery."

Giovanni nods and digs into his pocket. He pulls out a wad of notes – all new crispy green Dollars by the look of them. Dutch takes them and leafs through them, checking if they're counterfeit or not. After a few minutes, he nods and pockets the money.

"Pleasure doing business," he says, shaking the arms' dealer's hand again.

"Bring the boy," Giovanni says to one of the men next to him. "Put him on one of the back tables. We'll get to him later."

The bodyguard grabs Griffin's bound wrists and pulls him along behind him.

"Hold on," Dutch says as the men start to move Griffin beyond the first row of metallic tables. "Just out of interests sake, what do you intend to do with the boy?"

Giovanni shrugs. "I run a successful black market body part trade. I'll use the boy for spare parts. I have a big order coming in next week."

I stare at the arms dealer in horror. Bile is rising in my throat. I feel like I want to throw up violently.

I grab Dutch's arm, digging my fingers into his flesh. "You can't let them do this!" I hiss urgently. "Human trafficking is one thing, but letting them cut him up like a slab of meat? That's way out of line!"

Dutch looks down at me, frowning. "It's not our business, Jamey. Balalaika sold him to Giovanni, and it's up to Giovanni what he wants to do with him."

I gape from Dutch, to Giovanni, and my gaze comes to rest on Griffin's terror-stricken face. I can see the horror in his eyes. My heart feels like a lead lump in my chest, and my lungs like an iron fist is squeezing all the air from them.

Hot tears build up in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away angrily. I still live by my rule of no more tears.

"Dutch, you can't!" my voice breaks. I feel Revy's hand on my shoulder, trying to pull me away. I think I might be drawing blood from Dutch's arm.

He frowns at me and says, "Don't make it my problem, Jamey."

I choke on tears and shout at him, "Bloody murderer!"

I rip away from Revy's hand. My face is contorted in horror. I back away from all of them slowly, like a caged animal. I can't even bring myself to look at Griffin.

"Jamey…" Revy looks angry. I know she thinks I shouldn't be acting like this over some cargo.

"No!" I scream at her. I point a finger accusingly at Giovanni. "You're just as bad as them!" I scream, and bolt from the warehouse, tears streaming down my face.

I feel as though I've broken some part of myself inside. This is the first time I've cried in six years. But I tell myself that there's a difference now. Now, I'm not crying because I'm afraid of being broken. I'm crying because I feel useless. There's nothing I can do to save Griffin. Nothing I can do to stop them from cutting him up into a thousand tiny pieces.

Choking on my tears, I run though the dark, unfamiliar streets back to the boat. It takes me half an hour, but I don't stop running. I crash onto the deck of the torpedo boat, making it rock on the water.

I scream my rage through my tears, burying my face in my arms and slamming my fist down on the deck. I'm angry with Dutch for being so indifferent to the whole thing. I'm angry at Revy for doing nothing. I'm angry with myself for not being able to do anything. Angry with myself for getting close to the cargo when I knew I shouldn't have. Most of all, I'm angry with myself for crying, and not being able to stop.

I've never felt so bloody wretched in my whole frigging life.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Soulless Warrior - ****welcome and thanks for reading! :D haha yeah, it also reminds me why I have a very small to moderate alcohol consumption rate :P don't count Lagoon Company out just yet! ;D**

**Chapter seven – Ghosts**

Rock found me half an hour later, still sobbing on the deck. I had huddled myself up between one of the torpedo tubes and the railing, snivelling and glaring out over the water. I had made up my mind that if anyone came within ten feet of me, I would go ballistic.

Rock found that out the hard way, and hasn't come near me since. Now, he's waiting for Dutch and Revy to come back so that they can deal with me.

If either of those traitors comes near me, I'll go off worse at them than what I did to Rock. And I think it'll take at least a month for the bruises on his head to heal.

It's been two hours since the hand over. I can't bring myself to think too much about the fact that I'm sure they've started cutting Griffin up by now, and that Dutch and Revy are walking away from the whole thing with a wad of cash in their pockets and not a single regret in their hearts.

I'm angry with them. Unbelievably angry. But I know I'll have to forgive them sooner or later. I can never be angry with my big sister for too long. She's the only real family I've ever known.

I take another shuddering breath and focus on the stars twinkling above the water. They seem dimmer now.

I hear footsteps coming up the gangplank. Rage tightens my stomach. If Dutch takes a single step towards me…

"Jamey?" it's Revy that's being the brave one. She knows how I'll react, so Dutch's put her in the line of fire. Though, Revy has rarely seen me in one of my really, _really_ bad moods. "Are you okay?"

Revy leans over the torpedo tube, keeping her distance, but trying to see my face. I glare at her from the corner of my eye.

"Get away from me," I growl, tensing my shoulders. I dig my fingers into the palm of my hand.

"Jamey…" Revy sighs, a worried frown creasing her forehead.

"Get away!" I shout, hunching down further in between the torpedo and the guardrail. I look back out over the water, completely ignoring anyone else on the ship.

"She's been like this for an hour and a half," I hear Rock explain. "I tried to see what was wrong, and she attacked me!" I hear him whine.

Revy laughs at the wounds I made on his neck. I growl low. She shouldn't be laughing when Griffin is just a piece of meat on a slab right now.

"You'd better go and speak to her," Revy says. I can't see who she's talking to, but if she sends either Rock or Dutch anywhere near me, they'll end up as fish food.

I hear light footsteps coming across the deck. I'm guessing it's Benny, because the footsteps aren't heavy enough to be Dutch's. Smart move, but not smart enough.

"Jamey?" the voice I hear isn't Benny's or Rock's. My heart literally misses a couple of beats. My breath stops in my throat and I have to force myself to breath. It couldn't possibly be…

I slowly turn my head to look over the torpedo tube. My eyes are wide, searching for someone I thought would be gone by now.

Griffin is standing a few feet away from me, hands behind his back. He looks concerned, but I can see the ghost of a grin on his face. I stand up slowly, wondering for a second if maybe I'm dreaming. I take one or two steps towards him, starting to smile.

My smile turns into a full-on grin and I launch myself at Griffin. I throw my arms around his neck. The force of me hitting him sends both of us tumbling over the guard rail and into the icy water below. It feels as though someone's thrown me into a freezer. My grip around Griffin's shoulders lessens for a second as we both come up for air, gasping. We're both soaked and the water is freezing, but I throw myself at Griffin again, wrapping my arms around him and wanting never to let go. He's tall enough that he can stand on the concrete under the water while I use him like a human life buoy. He hugs me back and buries his head against my neck. We're both laughing like maniacs.

It takes twenty minutes for Revy and Dutch to fish us out of the harbour, and now we're sitting infront of the heater in the control room, wrapped in blankets and sipping steaming hot coffee.

Revy's made mine just how I like it – with one spoon of instant coffee and six spoons of sugar. My clothes are sopping wet, but I don't want to change. I won't leave Griffin until I'm sure he's actually going to stay on the boat permanently.

Every time I want to say something to him, the words die on my tongue and I just end up laughing and grinning like a maniac. Eventually, after I've managed to singe my tongue three times on the hot coffee, I set it down and pull the blanket closer around my shoulders, swivelling the chair to face Griffin.

Revy and Dutch are out on deck, untying the boat from the pier. Benny, as always, is holed up in his computer room. Rock is crashing in the cargo hold and keeping as far away from me as possible.

Griffin looks up at me and grins. He puts his coffee down and sighs. "Close call," he says with a laugh.

I laugh, too. "How…how did you get out?" I ask eventually. I still can't believe that Giovanni didn't cut him up and use him for extra body parts.

Griffin snorts and smiles. He looks out the door onto the deck and replies, "After you disappeared, Dutch talked to Revy for a little while. I thought those thugs were gonna lay me on a slab, but then Dutch asked Giovanni if he could buy me back. Said he could live with a little human trafficking, but not slaughter."

I can't believe it. Under all that callousness and short-temperedness, the great Dutch has a heart after all.

Just then, Dutch and Revy walk back into the control room, shutting the door behind them.

I turn to Dutch, still grinning. "You bought him back," I say matter-o-factly.

He shrugs and smiles. "I'm no murderer, Jamey, whatever you may think."

I blush and look down at my hands buried in the thick fleece blanket. "Yeah…about that…"

"You don't have to apologise," Dutch interrupts. "I needed the wake-up call. No matter how much of a good client Giovanni is, I won't become a butcher."

An image pops suddenly into my head – icy blue eyes, a scarred face, bleach-blonde hair. "What about Balalaika?" I frown. "What about her money?"

Dutch shrugs again and replies, "I think I can make up the balance with some extra cash we have lying around."

Before I realize it, I'm out of my chair and have thrown my arms around Dutch's waist. "Thank you," I say.

He pats me on the back. "You're freezing," he admonishes with a smile. "I think you'd better go and change out of those wet clothes before you get sick and Revy cuts my head off."

"Not so much me cutting your head off, but you taking care of her when she can't eat anything by herself," Revy jokes from a corner, arms folded. "I think that would be more than punishment enough."

I laugh, look back at Griffin and Revy, and dash down to my room, whooping like a mad thing. I feel like I'm floating on air.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Much thanks to Draco38 and King Kubar for the reviews :D really, really appreciated :) **

**I'm really sorry that this chapter is so late, I was a little snowed under with school work for a while, so all of my creative writing has suffered as a result -_-'**

**Rest assured, this story WILL be updated even if I have to keep myself up until the early hours of the morning to do so!**

**Chapter eight – Again?**

We walk through the bustling streets of Roanapur, dodging traffic and pickpockets trying to relieve you of any unattended valuables. Griffin sticks close by me, not too keen on getting lost in this delightful crowd of cutthroats and thieves. I hike my jacket up a little to display my twin Berettas, a subliminal warning to anyone stupid enough to try their luck that we weren't like their usual targets.

"Doesn't Benny have a car here or something?" I ask Revy as we walk.

"The old Pontiac got shot up a couple of weeks ago," she explains, smirking at the blonde driver's sudden discomfort at the subject. "We're still in the process of finding a new ride. As you can tell, we haven't been home much."

I chuckle. "Do I even wanna know what happened to it?"

"Probably not," Benny mutters, shaking his head forlornly.

"Let's just say some local competition got a little bit…feisty," Dutch answers with a booming laugh, slapping Benny heartily on the back.

Even Griffin starts snickering at that.

…

After an hour and a half of trampling around in the stifling heat, we finally make it to the faded old building that Lagoon Company uses as a head office.

Dutch fishes out a set of keys from one of the pockets of his sleeveless jacket and unlocks the chipped door.

"Home sweet home," Revy sighs contentedly, lacing her fingers together behind her head as she waltzes inside the gloomy building.

I follow her in, Griffin close behind me. We climb up a creaky staircase and emerge in a much better-it room. Even though I had been around Lagoon Company many times before, I had never been here. Or anywhere near Roanapur, for that matter.

The room wasn't overly large, with two or three old couches in the middle of it, surrounding a dilapidated coffee table, and a very cluttered desk towards the back, right in front of a large window. I had a safe bet in my mind that the desk was Dutch's.

There was a single corridor leading off from the room. I guess it led to the bathroom and maybe one or two extra offices.

"Not too bad," I comment as Revy comes to stand beside me, "for a crew that's almost always broke."

Revy snorts, rolling her eyes. "That's rich, coming from you."

I pull a tongue at her childishly and stalk across the living room to the corridor. I now see that instead of offices, the rooms beyond are sleeping quarters, probably for when Lagoon Company are docked here without any jobs.

"Right," Dutch announces his entrance, dropping a heavy-looking bag on one of the couches, "Jamie, you'll bunk with Revy on the couches. Rock, you and the new kid share the other room. Benny-Boy, you know the drill."

"The couches again?" Revy groans. "Why can't we get the _bed_ this time around?"

"Because you're like our guard dog," Dutch replies with a grin. "We need you out in front to protect us from any scary monsters that decide to come knocking."

Revy rolls her eyes. "Fuck you and the damn _guard dog_ speech…" she mutters venomously.

"Stop you're bitching, Revy," Dutch chuckles. "Now be good, I gotta head out and get some supplies."

Dutch pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder at the five of us assembled behind him. "And try not to bite each other's heads off while I'm gone."

…

Despite what Revy had told me about Rock being too much of a softie, I find myself in quite an entertaining conversation with him while Dutch is out. Revy is passed out on the couch, so I don't worry about her giving me grief about talking to him.

Pretty soon, I find my opinion of the soft-spoken businessman starting to change, to my surprise. I realize that I hadn't been paying much attention to him during the past couple of days, and I wonder why that is.

But before I can sink too deep into the thought, Rock snaps me out of it.

"You never did tell us what happened to make you join the crew," he asks. The innocently oblivious look on his face suddenly makes me uncomfortable.

Uncharacteristically for me, I'm hesitant to shatter whatever 'innocent' impression of me he has. I can tell he thinks I'm just a little kid, despite everything I've seen and done.

"It's kind of a long story," I reply hesitantly, averting my eyes. "One I'd rather not discuss."

Griffin, sitting next to me on the free couch, gives me a knowing look and I shoot him a glare. I don't need his pity, never had. You would think he would remember the last time he gave me that look.

Rock nods understandingly from the chair he had pulled out of the kitchenette on the other end of the room. I guess he's used to the 'don't ask' story from Revy. I'm a lot like her – we don't divulge personal information too readily.

"I suppose you'll tell me when you want to, huh?" he says, smiling sympathetically.

I feel the familiar anger start to bubble beneath the surface again. Damn, I hate those looks.

Griffin yawns widely and throws his booted feet up onto the coffee table, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. I snorted and smack his leg, silently grateful for the opportunity to change the topic.

"You have no manners," I scoff, rolling my eyes.

Griffin just pulls a tongue and me and sort of winks. "You should be one to talk."

I growl and throw my own leg up off the floor, plopping it onto his stomach. I grin in satisfaction when he grunts in surprise. Griffin cracks an eye open to glare at me, and I just return it with a toothy snarl.

Rock chuckles, shaking his head. My attention snaps to him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he shakes his head again and I cock an eyebrow. Sure doesn't look like 'nothing' to me. "I just get the sense that you're a lot more open with Griffin than you would ever be with the rest of us."

Griffin and I exchange a deadpan look for a moment before we both turn our attention back to Rock.

"We have a mutual understanding of things," I reply matter-o-factly.

He chuckles again and both Griffin and I roll our eyes. While Rock is sniggering away, I motion with my head to the pillow behind Griffin's arm. He catches my drift and tosses me the pillow, grinning mischievously. Smirking, I launch the beat-up pillow at Rock's head.

It catches him full in the face and he tumbles off the chair, yelping in surprise. Griffin and I burst out laughing, slapping our hands together in a victorious high-five.

Rock sits up, removing the pillow from his face. He glares at us for a moment, hen switches his venomous look to me.

"You know, you're way too much like your sister sometimes," he growls.

I snigger and pull a tongue at him. "Duh, that's why we're _sisters, _smart-ass!"

Rock only sighs as mine and Griffin's laughter increases.

…

Dutch only comes back from supply-gathering a good three hours later. He dumps various plastic and duffle bags on the tiny kitchen counter and waltzes into the living room. Revy, still snoring like a trooper, doesn't even register that someone else is in the room.

Griffin, Rock and I are just watching the two of them from our position on the opposite couch. I suppose this is what we could call our prime-time entertainment, since the office is lacking in an actual television set.

Dutch sighs as he notices our rapt attention focused on him, lifting a hand and clipping Revy over the back of the head to wake her up. Caught mid-snore, Revy chokes rather ungraciously and shoots into a sitting position, her eyes snapping open and searching the room for imaginary adversaries.

"The fuck…" she grumbles, her eyes finally landing on Dutch as he towers over her.

Griffin and I snigger at the confused look on her face and she snaps her savage gaze to us. We instantly shut our mouths and I smile nervously. It's never a good thing to be in any room with Revy when she's in a bad mood.

"You little brats!" she snarls, launching herself off the couch.

Yelping, I flip myself over the back of the couch as Griffin shoots over the arm, desperate to avoid a rather messy fate if Revy gets her hands on either one of us.

"Pipe down, Two-Hands!" I peer over the back of the couch to see Dutch grab Revy by her gun holster, keeping her from tearing into us like a rabid bulldog. She throws one last venomous look at Griffin before turning her attention back to Dutch. He casts her a calm-the-fuck-down-or-I'll-kill-you look and continues. "We just got a new job."

"What? But we only just got back in town!" Benny protests from his position at the kitchen table. "Don't we get to rest or anything?"

"Work is work, Benny-Boy. Doesn't stop for anything," Dutch replies. Rock just frowns. I can tell something is up – Dutch looks worried about this job. Dutch is never worried about anything.

"So what's the job?" Revy prompts, shrugging Dutch's hand off her back and settling onto the couch again. She kicks her feet up onto the coffee table and takes a cigarette out of the box in her pocket. Before she can light it, Dutch snatches it away, scowling. "You know we don't smoke in the office."

Revy just rolls her eyes and folds her arms.

"Our new job is a joint-operation is the Chinese Hong-Kong Triad," Dutch explains. My curiosity piques. I'd always heard stories about Mr. Chang and the rest of the Triad, but I'd never actually had a chance to see them.

"Since when does the Triad do joint ops?" Benny interjects.

"Since Balalaika asked them to," Dutch shakes his head and my stomach drops. Seems like Balalaika is involved in everything these days.

"But we just finished a job for Hotel Moscow!" Rock protests. "What do they want now?"

Dutch shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. "Balalaika wants us to join a joint hit-and-run operation with the Triad to attack a corrupt naval base somewhere near Puerto Rico. Apparently they have something of hers that she wants back quite badly."

"And what is it that she wants back?" Rocks asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"That's the problem - she won't tell us," Dutch shrugs. "She's just told us to contact her one we've infiltrated the base and she'll give us directions to the location of the cargo."

"How the hell is that going to work?" Revy growls, dropping one leg off the coffee table. "We can't get whatever the hell she wants us to get if we don't know what it is! And why does she need us anyway? Surely Chang can handle this thing on his own?"

"She wants Chang to infiltrate the base and get the cargo, and wants us to transport it back to Roanapur. She told me that we're to be Chang's back-up support too, if it comes to it," Dutch explains, nudging Revy's other leg off the table.

"This is such bullshit," she grumbles, glaring at him.

"Bullshit it may be, but this is Balalaika we're talking about," Benny pipes up, pushing his glasses up with a forefinger. "We don't exactly have a choice here. Hotel Moscow is a good – if not intimidating – client."

"Benny-Boy's got the right idea," Dutch agrees. He turns and starts walking towards the sleeping quarters. "Get as much rest as you can. We leave in the morning."

I sigh and look at Griffin. We have similar worried looks on our faces. Neither of us like the fact that we're dealing with Balalaika again, after all the trouble she put us through last time.

I rest my head against the back of the couch and sigh. There's not much a small-time gang like us can do against an organization like Hotel Moscow.

**Sorry this is so short! I promise the next chapter will be longer ^^**


End file.
